


Odd Bird

by WhiteFang



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Brace yourselves, But it could be anyone else, Canon-Typical Violence, Family, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Magic, Major Character Death is not Theon or Robb ok?, Psychological Trauma, Ramsay is his own warning, Time Travel, Torture, well technically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-04-06 17:58:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4231362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteFang/pseuds/WhiteFang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Would it be mercy this time? </p><p>Perhaps... Because whether through the gods, or magic, or a kind twist of fate, Theon Greyjoy finds himself in the position to rewrite a lot of the things he'd been regretting ever since he landed himself in a Bolton dungeon. </p><p>But changing the past isn't as easy as it sounds. Not when people have such a hard time believing you. Not when your every action has far-reaching consequences that aren't always easy to predict. Not when magic is awakening within the land of Westeros and enemies lurk behind every corner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rat Cook

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do NOT own Game of Thrones. I am not and will not ever attempt to make money off this fanfic. Honestly, I have my own original stories in the works, alright? 
> 
> This takes place a while after the season 3 finale. This may end up being a mixture of both the books and the TV show. 
> 
> Warning: Some torture and allusions to torture and brainwashing. Also, **Trigger Warning: References to Canon Child Death.** Mostly there’s nothing more awful than in the show though, I don’t think. 
> 
> _I’ve written about eight chapters, and I would love a beta reader for this! Mail me if interested?_

**…**

_"It wasn't for murder the gods cursed the Rat Cook, or for serving the King's son in a pie... he killed a guest beneath his roof... that's something the gods can't forgive."  
Bran Stark_

\---

Would it be mercy this time?

_Slice. Scream. Shudder._

His captor was merciful. He was. Reek… no, Theon knew it because he’d been told it. And everything Ramsay said was always true. 

“You’re a turn cloak you know? Reek, Reek it rhymes with sneak.” He heard a snigger. 

_I know._

He could barely breathe through the pain. The Bolton Bastard had started in on his chest, his flaying knife coated in red, a wild look in his eyes. Reek knew the end was near. Asha was coming. 

“No one else wants you Reek. She won’t want you now.” 

_I know._

_Slice. Peel. Drip. Drip._

_Scream._

Reek sobbed, shrieked, shuddered. Nothing made the pain go away. He turned his face away. Maybe if he hid it beneath his arm, he could ignore it all. But he couldn’t move much. The unyielding wood he was tied to made sure of that. When Asha saw him, she’d be disgusted. He wasn’t whole. He was missing four fingers. Three toes. Some of his teeth were splintered and rotten. His hair had grown out, he thought a streak of it looked whiter than it should. Asha would kill him to erase him. She was Ironborn. The Iron Islands hated weakness. She only wanted to bring back the baby brother who’d smiled at her. But Reek wasn’t him. He hadn’t been him for a very long time. Asha and he made quite the pair, he thought bitterly. _We both want things we can never have._

Ramsay ran a thumb along Reek’s face. It was gentle. The man sighed and walked to the table in the middle of the room. “I’m going to be sad to lose you, but all good things must come to an end.” 

Ree… Theon, couldn’t see what he was doing and a moment of true panic ran through him before the exhaustion settled back in. Did he care? But Ramsay didn’t come back with a blade or an axe. He came back with a bit of bread soaked in wine and sprinkled with salt. Reek’s stomach roared at him. His mutilated hand strained towards the food. Ramsay held it back for a moment, laughter in those glacial blue eyes. “You’re hungry? Let’s call it a last meal than. I’m good to give you this, you know.”

_I know._

Ramsay was always good to him.

His captor went on, a mocking smile splitting his face. “But I suppose Guest Rights also force me to give you this. You are my guest Reek.” His fingers tightened on Reek’s wrist. “ _My_ guest. Not hers.” His eyes seemed to stare passed the walls of the dungeon to where Asha’s ships were harbored. Word was that they were moored at Widow’s Watch. Reek had overheard some of the guards talking about it in hushed, frightened voices. It only took two days to sail from there down to the Weeping Water and into the Dreadfort’s harbor. Reek hoped they were closer than that though. Two days could be a very long time. 

The bread was softened from the wine, but even so it stuck on Reek’s splintered teeth. The ache was less than the burn of his chest, where his skin hung down in tatters, so he swallowed as much as he could. It barely helped. Both of them became aware of the sound then, a kind of quiet huffing sound that was almost like laughter. Another prisoner was _laughing_. Ramsay looked furious at the interruption. Reek found he didn’t much care. He was still ravenously hungry. 

The other was covered in rags and splayed on the floor in the cell across from his. Maybe it was female. He wasn’t sure. 

“Guest!” It breathed. “You damn yourself by your own words Bolton. The Lord of Light and the Old Gods _both_ will punish you.” Its voice was thin, breathy like a child’s. But it was full of triumph. A spill of pale hair fell from the bundle and Reek could see brown eyes staring out at them. “You will burn.” It said. 

For a moment those brown eyes were bathed in dark shadow and Reek thought he could see fire flare up along the walls of that cell, half hidden behind the stone of his own doorway. Then the illusion was gone. The torch had sputtered, that was all. Ramsay was not impressed.

His jailor turned back to him with a grin. “It’s a good thing those aren’t my gods then, eh Reek?” His face became grave just as quickly as he said, “You murdered those two children.”

Reek. No, Theon flinched. _I know I know I know._

“Even if they weren’t Bran and Rickon, your young wolf would be horrified.” Ramsay paused, then finished quietly. “Were he still alive.”

Reek closed his eyes. Ramsay had told him all about what had happened at Walder Frey’s holdfast In excruciating detail. Reek glanced to the corner of his cell at the bloody bundle sitting there. Unseeing eyes stared right back at him. Robb’s unborn child. Only the head of the thing really looked like a baby. His jailor had had it cut out for him as a present. 

“Bran, Rickon, Jon, Sansa, Arya.” Ramsay continued in a singsong voice, “Pretty mother Catelyn rhymes with madman. Didn’t you always want her to like you? But she didn’t. And now none of them do.” He grabbed at Reek’s hair and whispered close to his ear, “All of them hate you Reek. I’m the only one that doesn’t. _I_ want you.” 

_I know._

Ramsay took up the knife again. Cut deeper this time. 

_Slice. Peel. Drip. Drip. Drip._

_Scream._

_Breathe. Breathe._

Then Ramsay paused, lifted the knife back. He said, “So you’ll stay with me, right?” There was something almost pleading in his tone. Reek looked at his eyes. They were sincere, almost a little afraid. But the flaying knife was poised above his heart. Even so, it was hard to argue against. Someone wanted him. Someone cared. Reek started to say yes. His mouth formed the words, but the sound of screaming hit his ears. Metal clanged on metal, orders were shouted, someone bellowed, “Ironborn! The Greyjoys are here!” 

The door to the cells rattled. Someone yelled, “Where’s my brother?” It sounded so familiar. 

Ramsay’s eyes widened and a wild hope seized Reek. Fear made his voice a whisper. He answered, “No” just as the cold blade plunged into his heart. 

He heard, “No, No! Theon!” Someone was sobbing. Brilliant fire rose high in the background, blinding him. He thought he heard breathy laughter. But then everything was blurry and too disconnected. Then it was all gone.

_Huh, Reek doesn’t rhyme with gone…_

\---

The world was still a blur when he woke up. And the fire was still there, deep in his bones and cracking them like logs. Colors changed and blended into sounds. There was a calm voice saying, “He has a fever. Hold him down.”

There were too many people. _Red hair. Red hair everywhere._ He felt as if he was ablaze, but he thought he might be shivering. Especially as one of the red heads stepped forward and he could have sworn it was Lady Catelyn. He gave her a lopsided grin. _Pretty Lady Catelyn rhymes with sad man._ And then he remembered how sad she had probably been when Robb died. Maybe if he’d stayed… His smiled dropped. Someone touched his arm and he flinched. He might have started crying. _I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Red hair. Red hair everywhere. Like red blood, red brides, red weddings. Never trust a Frey._ The colors and faces faded.

The next time he woke, the person looked like Robb, only with less stubble. Reek asked him where his beard had gone to, but Robb didn’t seem to understand the question. He only looked worried. He motioned for someone else to come in and they tried to make him drink, but Reek saw dark hair and bluish eyes lurking in the background and thought _Ramsay!_ He remembered the times when the drinks had been drugged. When he couldn’t move even as the knife came down on this finger or that toe. If he couldn’t move he couldn’t warn Robb not to marry that girl! _No! No! Stop hurting me. I’m sorry. I have to warn you. I’m sorry. I’ll be good. Stop…_

The next time he woke he shot straight up, his heart pounding. A man with a grim face sat at his bedside, running a hand through his brown hair. The man muttered, “This can’t happen. We need them unable to make a move.” He trailed off and gave a weak chuckle. “That’s not even to mention how Robb will react.” He said.

Reek turned toward him. “Lord Eddard Stark?” He asked. His voice was hoarse and disbelieving. The man looked up, startled. 

Reek narrowed his eyes. “No,” he said. “It’s not you. Your head rolled in King’s Landing after Jon Arryn died. It, King Joffrey…” He trailed off and put a hand to his head. “Gods, my head aches.”

Lord Stark shot him a worried glance. “You’ve been sick boy, but you should have been lucid by now.” He trailed off. Then Lord Stark stood up so suddenly, that Reek jumped. “I’ll get Maester Luwin.” He said.

When he left, Reek took a moment to look around. He was lying in a bed. An actual bed! And were those… it looked… exactly like his room in Winterfell… He fumbled at the furs holding him down before he suddenly stopped. _My fingers._ He waved them in front of his face, reveling in the easy way he seemed to be able to move. The fingers were all there. All ten of them. He slowly uncovered his toes. All ten. There was a bronze mirror by his bedside and he snatched it up. His teeth were good too! And… He looked closer. _Well that looks off…_ Something about his face was different.

Maester Luwin burst into the room with all the haste the exceedingly old man could conjure up. His chains clinked as he moved. Reek held out his fingers and toes to the man, a questioning lilt to his voice. “Do you see them all too?” 

The old man put a hand on his forehead. “See what?” He asked absently. 

Reek smiled. The relief flooding through him made his limbs weak. “My fingers and toes. I have all my fingers and toes. I can shoot a bow again.” He marveled at his spotless skin. “And I’m clean!” He shouted.

The door closed with a quiet clack. Robb, some little boy, and Lord Stark stood on the inside of it. As Robb strode to his side, Reek noticed something else. Robb’s face looked a lot younger than when he’d last seen him. There wasn’t much stubble on his chin at all. He didn’t look older than ten and six summers. Robb’s unwavering gaze made his stomach crawl. _Why isn’t he killing me on the spot?_ His voice shook as he said, “Hullo Robb. Am I dead? Is that why you look so young?” 

The little boy that had come in wailed, “Father! Is Theon going to die?”

Reek started. His tongue was thick and sluggish in his mouth. “Who’s Theon?” He asked. But his own mind answered the question. _I am Theon. But if you call me that he’ll hurt me! He’ll skin me. Fingers and Toes and Fingers and Toes and that other Thing._ He shuddered.

As everyone stood around him just looking at each other, he tried to make them see. “I’m Reek, not Theon. Not Theon. I won’t be Theon. I promised!” 

Lord Eddard sighed and pushed the little boy out of the room, saying, “Off you go Bran.” 

Then they started to talk about him as if he wasn’t even there. Reek stopped listening. _Bran? That was Bran?_ But that Bran had looked no older than six summers. And he could walk! Hodor wasn’t even in the _room._ He took a closer look at the others. Yes, Robb looked younger too. And so did Lord Eddard and even the Maester, who had more hair and was slightly less obscenely wrinkled. Reek took a look at his own arms and legs and absently asked Robb his age.

The answer he got surprised him. He had been spot on. And that meant… that meant that Reek himself was the same age. It meant it was three full years before everything had started happening. Three years before King Robert had come and changed all their lives. Four years before the Dreadfort. _This could save everything!_ He felt a hand on his arm and looked up into his former lord’s face. Robb had been a little distant during the war, and even before. He remembered Robb speaking the words, “It’s not your duty, because it’s not your house.” 

Theon had been pushing his boundaries, trying to get Robb to see that the war had already started. When Robb had said those words, it had hurt. But they hadn’t always been like that with each other. Now Robb was looking at Theon as if he was terminally ill. The boy asked, “Are you alright?” like he wanted a positive answer, but didn’t think he was going to get one. 

Reek avoided his gaze. He had come to realize, at the Dreadfort, that in exchange for Robb’s harsh words Theon had committed far more heinous deeds. He tried not to hyperventilate. _I’m sorry! I’m sorry._ Across the room the Maester and Lord Stark were having a hushed conversation. Maester Luwin was saying, “The boy’s off his head. His sickness was a bad one. High fevers sometimes do this, but he is stable. He will live.”

“And will he recover his wits?” Lord Stark asked.

The Maester just shrugged. But he was looking at Reek rather oddly. “There’s no reason why he shouldn’t. In fact, he should have already. What worries me are his hallucinations. Fever dreams usually incorporate bits and pieces of reality, but he kept mentioning House Bolton and the Freys. We’ve never had the Boltons here. The Freys we rarely see.”

This time Lord Eddard shrugged. “He may have met them both in the Iron Islands. The Twins are close by and the Boltons have always had an… understanding with the Ironborn.”

The Maester lowered his voice even further and Reek had to concentrate to hear bits and pieces. “The boy may have witnessed some… barbaric methods… repressed memories perhaps…historically Reek has been the name Bolton’s give their prisoners… should be careful.” 

Reek, no Theon, narrowed his eyes. This wasn’t good. The Starks needed to be able to believe him when he warned them about everything. He turned to Robb. “Three years. In three years everything will happen. I’ve seen it. I’ve been there. Jon Arryn dies and then so does King Robert and—”

Robb cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. “Theon—”

“I’m not Theon!” He yelled, frustration and panic leaking into his voice. Lord Eddard walked over, interrupting them. “We’re going to get you back to normal, boy. Don’t worry.” The man sighed heavily. “For now, I’ll have Sansa bring you up some food. Work on resting. Come, Robb.”

Reek saw Robb turning to walk out and spoke quietly, in a sobbing whisper, “I’m sorry Robb. I’m so sorry.” 

To his surprise Robb walked back and grabbed him in a fast, firm hug. The boy then leaned back and grasped his arm in a gesture that was meant to be comforting. “You’re only sick,” he said, “There’s nothing wrong with that. You’ll get better.” 

And then he left. Reek felt a chill move through him. Would he _never_ be able to apologize to Robb? He tentatively stepped out from beneath the warm, wolf fur coverings of his bed and made his way to the window. Outside, it really was Winterfell. Not an illusion. The sky was grey, cloudy like it always seemed to be in the North. The puddles from some recent rain lay in the ruts from the carts across the dirt-covered ground. The walls were grey and made of unyielding stone. Far in the distance, he could even see the Weirwood tree, its leaves wine red. 

When he heard the footsteps echoing on the stair he shot back to the bed, shaking. But it was only little Sansa who walked in. She was a lot shorter than he’d seen her last. Her face still had baby fat on it. She had a large tray in her hands, laden with food. She also had a scowl on her face. It was directed at him. “I can’t believe they have me playing nursemaid to _you._ ” Her mouth formed a petulant frown. “You’re not a valiant knight. You’re just a nothing archer. If you were a knight I wouldn’t mind.”

Reek found his own mouth trying to form a smile. It had been so long, he wasn’t sure he was doing it right. But Robb’s little sister had always been like this. There might be no love lost there, but her reaction to him was so normal, so like what he remembered that he couldn’t help but feel a little comforted. And then she plopped the tray on the bed, prissily straightened her dress, and turned to go. He looked down at the tray. Venison stew was steaming in the bowl. His stomach grumbled. But she hadn’t told him he could eat. He turned to ask, but she was already gone. 

The stew smelled amazing. He could feel the rumble his stomach was making under his skin. Sansa wasn’t Ramsay. _She wasn’t._ But she hadn’t told him he could eat. 

He didn’t touch the food.


	2. Fix Me First

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do NOT own Game of Thrones. I am not and will not ever attempt to make money off this fanfic. Honestly, I have my own original stories in the works, alright? 
> 
> This takes place a while after the season 3 finale, so spoilers for everything up to there.

…

_“Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armour yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you.”_

_Tyrion Lannister_

\---

That night Reek thought everything over. The fever had gone down and so his thoughts were about as clear as they were like to get. He was in Winterfell, he was fairly certain. He didn’t seem to be in some torturous afterlife in any case. Though he honestly couldn’t remember where the Drowned God put those he deemed unworthy… He worried about that for a moment, started searching through foggy memories of long ago, and then decided it didn’t matter. He seemed to be in Winterfell. A Winterfell before he’d gone and done all he’d done. A Winterfell before everything fell apart. He wondered if he was there because of the woman in the dungeons. He wondered if he was there because of the ancient laws of hospitality. Mostly he wondered if he was really there at all.

Again, it didn’t matter. He had to try to do something about the there where he currently was. Before it became _there_ and he went _back_ there and… and… Reek pulled his knees to his chest and took a deep breath. _The people here want Theon_ , he thought. He wasn’t Theon, not anymore and now that he was here with all the normalcy of the place where Theon had lived he couldn’t just forget that, but he could pretend to be him. Maybe if he pretended well enough someone would finally listen to him. He carefully set the bowl on the little side table and fell asleep. 

He woke to the sound of knocking. When he answered, Sansa walked into the room. She seemed to be wearing one of her homemade gowns back from when she wasn’t the greatest at sewing. The seams were a little crooked. She took one look at his bowl and sent him an unhappy frown. “You were supposed to eat that.” She said.

_Oh._

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he answered.

She was silent. He mumbled a “sorry” again, unable to stop. Her frown deepened on her childish face. “You never say sorry,” she said.

He didn’t have any response to that except to say “sorry” again. 

Sansa shook her head at him, “It doesn’t make you any nobler, apologizing like that. You’re still an oaf and… and you should just go back to the way you were.” She looked timidly fierce and a little proud of the words she’d chosen. Reek remembered that she’d only just stopped using the word “stupid” around her 11th summer. Reek… No Theon, couldn’t agree with her sentiments though. He was not getting that person back any time soon. Nor did he want him back. Having his old name was gift enough. _I thought I’d never have a proper name again…_

Sansa interrupted those morbid thoughts by stating, “Father and Robb are coming by and they’re ever so,” she paused to think of the right word and finished, “cross with you. So… So you’d better be good.” 

_Cross?_ The word came with an unwelcome chill. What if Robb somehow remembered what he done to Winterfell? What if Lord Eddard was coming to put his head on the block? What if they’d learned he hadn’t eaten when they’d clearly wanted him to eat? The last thought should have been funny. Old Theon would have laughed at it. But Reek remembered all too well the punishments one could get for not eating when you were supposed to. Or for eating when you were _not_ supposed to. He fiercely reminded himself that the Starks were not the Boltons. The thought calmed him down a little. 

When Lord Eddard and Robb finally walked in, he’d gained the courage to greet them. Robb sat back, looking hopeful and also a little like he wasn’t supposed to be there, but Lord Eddard got right to the point, grim and unhappy looking as he was. “We need to know if you’re any better, Theon.” 

Reek made himself overlook the name, despite the panic it brought him to hear it said aloud. “I am,” he said. His voice only shook a little. 

Lord Eddard continued, “And can you remember who you are? Who we are?” 

Reek nodded. “I’m,” he gulped, “Theon.” 

He wasn’t struck down on the spot. Ramsay did not burst into the room, laughing at the jape he’d just played on him. After a few seconds his awed silence grew more comfortable and he added. “You’re Lord Eddard Stark and you are Robb Stark.”

Belatedly he realized Robb had been king by the time Reek had died. He’d never become used to thinking that way though. When he glanced around him he realized that Lord Eddard seemed relieved. “We’re glad to hear it,” he said. He put a hand on Reek’s shoulder. “No one was sure what to do with a sick Greyjoy,” the man joked. 

Reek tried for a smile, but it came out pale in comparison to his old ones. He tried to think of himself as a Greyjoy and couldn’t conjure up the image. _Asha deserves the name more than I do,_ he thought bitterly. He could still see her with her breeches on like a man, saying she was married to her _knife._ To his surprise, worry seeped into his thoughts. _I wonder if she’s okay._ His sister irritated him and she was so _smug_ and self-righteous and cocky, but she’d been one of only two people who’d loved him by the end. Ramsay had been the other. He thought. Maybe… Or perhaps Ramsay only loved that he was a convenient target. Either way, he was now far away from his captor and he was glad. He was ecstatic, he was happy… Wasn’t he? 

“Theon?” Ah, Lord Eddard was asking him to join everyone to break fast. Thankfully it shut up the sick tug in his heart he’d felt when he’d thought of being apart from his jailor. As they motioned him out the door, Robb laid an arm around his shoulder and shot him a great, big grin. Reek tensed, but Robb only said, “I knew you’d get better! After we’ve supped you’ll have to join me for lessons. I’ve been so bored without you there. It’s not like I can say the inappropriate things you do. Maester Luwin wouldn’t know what to do if _I_ did it!”

“That’s the truth.” Reek tried his hand at smiling again.

Robb bantered all the way to the hall while Reek desperately tried to respond normally. This kind of life seemed a lifetime away. And, in all actuality, it _was._ By the time they sat at the table, a little away from the others, he was worn out. Robb took notice. “Hey,” he said. His voice was quiet and his blue eyes looked concerned, maybe a little sad. “Are you alright?”

He nodded. “Yes. Fine.”

Robb didn’t look convinced. “If you need to go lie down again just tell me. And if something else is wrong…” He trailed off, thought for a second, started again with, “What the Maester said… about you remembering things you’d seen. If, if you need to talk or something…”

Reek tried to interject to say he was fine, but Robb shook his head, “If you need to talk, I’m here. Friends shouldn’t hide those sorts of things, Theon.” Robb looked sternly at him and for a brief moment he looked as much a king as he’d been before. 

Reek drew a sharp intake of breath. _Friends._ He wanted to laugh, but he thought if he started he might not be able to stop. He’d been stupid. He’d been so _stupid!_ Thrown everything away for glory and family and… right here there was… he couldn’t finish the thought. Somehow everything had just got so mucked up and he’d dug and he’d dug and he’d dug himself right to hell. _I’ll fix this. I’ll fix this._ He thought. 

“Theon?” Robb asked.

_That’s right. My name is Theon._ He repeated it to himself. _My name is Theon. My name is Theon. Fix myself and then I can start to fix everything else._

“I don’t need to talk now…” He said, “But thank you.” He meant it. 

Robb nodded, looking a little disappointed. Theon. _Theon. Theon_ tried not to notice. One thing at a time. 

The meal went smoothly until they brought out the baby pig. It was charred and red with small black eyes. Once several cuts were made it was just as misshapen and red, red, red as Robb’s unborn child. He felt himself go still and his stomach churned. Another cut and he thought, _it looks like those two boys. Just exactly like those boys I had burned._ Guilt gnawed at him and he crossed his arms, tried to make himself smaller. 

Someone shook his arm, “Are you alright? We can go.” 

But Reek barely heard it. Guilt scraped at his bones like, like… _flaying, Oh God. Everything’s wrong. Everything. Jon Arryn starts it and then Lord Eddard’s off with one less head. Head,head rhymes with dead._ God, was he shivering? There were so many noises, things were moving but none of them covered the dead pig. _No, dead rhymes with red, rhymes with bled, rhymes with said. And he said he was loyal, but Boltons lie. And I wasn’t there, wasn’t anywhere, wasn’t—_

_Screech!_ A chair scraped the floor beside him. Reek, no… Theon came to his senses to find a hand tugging on his arm and a very, very quiet hall. His eyes shot up to Robb’s. The redheaded boy was staring at him in shock. He let his eyes rove the rest of the almost empty hall. One woman had venison hanging halfway out of her mouth. Had he spoken aloud? Lady Catelyn answered _that_ question by loudly stating, “The boy’s not been well and has been with fever for the past two days. Robb escort him back to his room so that he may rest.” When he didn’t move she added, “Please.” Her voice shook the slightest bit. 

Lord Karstark’s voice echoed through the room, “Was that a threat against Lord Stark?” 

Lady Catelyn denied it. “Of course not. People say many things when they’re sick that they do not mean.” She glared at Theon as if to imply that he better _not_ mean it.

Robb tugged at his arm again and Theon got up. He lowered his head and muttered, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” 

“I know,” Robb simply said. 

They passed the woman who’d had the venison hanging from her mouth. She was whispering to another highborn lady, saying, “Do you think the Greyjoy hostage has gone mad?”

The other woman answered, “Balon won’t be happy to hear that. I’ve heard they drown the mad over at Pyke. Along with firstborn girls.”

“Dreadful place.” Both women shuddered. 

Reek spent the rest of the night in his room, enduring visits by Maester Luwin and being forcefed medicines that tasted like his old cell had smelled. No one visited. _Maybe they’re afraid of catching my sickness,_ he huffed out a laugh at the thought. Then he sobered. _Madness is only contagious when you have the right tools._ One flaying knife and Ramsay could have turned the lot of them into madmen. That mental image was not an easy one to be rid of. Reek spent the rest of the night huddled beneath the furs, repeating his real name to himself and gathering the courage for what he knew he had to do. 

The next morning, Reek awoke in a cold sweat. Because of the fever, he hadn’t bathed in days. It was nothing like the filth that used to cover him head to toe, yet his nose didn’t seem to remember that part and sharply reminded him that he smelled. He shrugged off the feeling and submitted to yet another examination by his oh so favorite Maester. 

Unfortunately, half way through he had another of what the Maester called an "episode." When Reek came back to his senses the old man bowed his head and let out so deep a sigh it sounded like a death rattle. “I’m afraid I do not have the answers to this illness Theon.” He said, sounding genuinely sorry. “The fever is gone. It wasn’t an abnormally long illness. There seems to be no reason for this. I will write another Maester in my acquaintance and ask if he has any knowledge of such a thing. But it will be several weeks before he could get here to see you himself.” The old man peered hard at him. “Do you understand Theon?”

Reek had been nodding along politely, but at that he scoffed. “I’m mad, not simple,” he muttered. 

The Maester looked affronted. His expression along with his oversized, shapeless gray robes made him look like an annoyed owl. The thought put Reek back into a good humor and something like a smirk passed briefly across his face. Maester Luwin saw it and smiled encouragingly at him. But Reek looked down when fear filled his veins like a harsh winter. _Ramsay doesn’t like my smiles,_ he thought. 

The Maester saw the change anyway and gravely put his hand on Reek’s shoulder. Reek flinched. “I wish I knew what to do to fix you, my boy.” The Maester said. “The Lord Stark wishes you to remain here just for today. Someone will bring you your meals. Is that alright?” 

Reek, no, no, _no, Theon’s_ mouth fell open in surprise. Someone was asking his opinion. They were not telling him what to do. For a moment, he felt terribly lost. _My opinion is your opinion, isn’t it?_ And then he remembered where he was. Still, he watched the old man’s face for the right answer. The Maester was hovering backwards a bit, as if he was preparing to leave. Theon tensed and immediately knew his answer wasn’t the right one. He was supposed to say “yes.” Lord Stark wished him to stay. But he wanted to say… What he wanted to say was… 

He thought back to his resolution, the promises he’d made to himself. That Lord Stark would not go to Kings Landing. That Robb wouldn’t marry that Jeyne girl. That he would make up for running Bran and Rickon off. That he would make up for ordering the killing of _those boys._ He couldn’t do all that by letting them lock him up. He’d been sitting on the bed. Now he took a deep breath and stood in front of Maester Luwin to give his answer. “I… I would like to go down to the s… springs.” If he trembled a little, the old man did not point it out. 

“I will ask.” The Maester said. 

His wish was granted, though he did notice that the path to the springs was suspiciously emptier than usual.

\---

The screaming was comforting. It was a lullaby of gasps, shrieks, and sobs that sent his blood singing along. He wished he could run his hands through the screams as he did through the blood. But he was always wishing that. Always trying to reach what he couldn’t reach. Touch hearts, minds, thoughts, just as he did marrow, liver, teeth.

But with _this_ one, with this one he almost _could._ He was almost _there._ His new pet was… shallow. There had been nothing there to begin with. A weak pond full of nothing but angry, jealous, little ripples. But he’d changed that. He’d carefully filled his prey up with humility, depth, love, and regret. And since he’d put it there, it was oh, so easy to read. Oh so easy to manipulate. A true Bolton was taught the art of torture from birth, so he knew exactly what to do. He hummed his toy’s name to himself and ran a finger along the branding iron—

And Ramsay Snow woke up. For a moment all was well until he remembered his wonderful dream. In it, he’d been a true Bolton, not a _Snow._ In it, he’d been taught the birthright he had such a talent for. In it, he’d found real prey, hunted it, caught it, _touched_ it. Like a god.

He snarled in rage, kicked the bedpost and, seeing a flash of pink by his bedside, threw his mother’s vase at the windowpane. He glared at the shards as a thought occurred to him. He’d named his prey Reek, it was tradition, but that hadn’t been the name his dream self had been humming at the end. As he took up his axe to help his mother with the chopping, he vowed that if it existed, he’d find himself a Theon Greyjoy. 

\---

Theon had been repeating his name to himself over and over ever since he left the springs. It was easier to think of himself as Theon now that he was clean. And his skin just felt… clear in a way that it hadn’t for over a year. He found himself humming as he walked back up the steps to the castle. The Maester was waiting for him, but he was standing alongside Robb. Theon’s heart sped up. _Am I about to be locked up? What_ do _you do with someone like me?_ But Robb only invited him to the yard for target practice. In those long ago Winterfell days Robb would have insisted on sparring with swords, so Theon asked him why they went for the arrows.

“Well,” Robb scratched at the stubble stubbornly trying to pop up on his chin. “I thought you might like to do something familiar.”

“Oh.” In a daring move, he replied, “You won’t beat me, you know.” 

For a second it was just like the old days. Robb snarked back at him as they took up a bow from the armory. If the stableboys scattered from the madman their lordling had armed with a weapon, they both pretended not to notice. Robb was chattering on about his brothers and Theon was reveling in the familiar feel of archery and company. 

_Nock._

“And then Bran actually stepped on Hodor to climb the kitchen roof! Can you believe it?”

_Draw back._

“Ironic,” Theon muttered, a little disturbed. He hadn’t heard this story the last time around. Was it a joke of the gods?

“What?” Robb asked. 

_Let fly._

“Nothing.”

“So anyway,” Robb continued, his voice a little strained, “Rickon keeps begging father to take him hunting. Of course, mother wants none of it.”

“You are right, Robb. I do not. He is far too young.” Came Lady Catelyn’s regal voice from behind them. Then she frowned severely, “And especially not after…” She shot a significant look at Robb, who only smiled back. 

Theon thought he knew what they were speaking of. “But it all turned out alright.” He added.

Lady Catelyn looked startled. “It did?”

“Well, Rickon’s getting lost and falling through that cavern cured him of his urge to run off, didn’t it? Of course, we had to endure his tales of ‘moving trees’ for a while.” Theon snorted. 

_Nock._

_Draw back._

He felt the silence itch at his shoulder blades. He loosed the arrow and turned around. “What?” He asked.

Lady Catelyn’s severe frown had never left. “Rickon’s never fallen through any cavern, boy.” She said.

Robb turned to him, “It’s alright. You must just be thinking of someone else, right?” 

Theon carefully set down his bow and crossed his arms, wishing for more courage. _It’s now or never._ “I… I’m not thinking of someone else. On his first hunt Rickon gets lost—”

“That’s enough boy.” Lady Catelyn commanded. As she walked off, she said. “I’ve had enough of this nonsense.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you expect Ramsay to just sit quietly in the background? Every story needs a villain. ;) Since I’ve only seen him on television, I hope I’m getting him right. And I hope I’m writing Robb mostly in canon, as well. He’s a little more talkative here because he’s overcompensating for the suddenly altered circumstances.
> 
> Please feel free to leave a review, a like, or a critique.


	3. Hostages and Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do NOT own Game of Thrones. I am not and will not ever attempt to make money off this fanfic. Honestly, I have my own original stories in the works, alright? 
> 
> This takes place a while after the season 3 finale, so spoilers for everything up to there. This may end up being a mixture of both the books and the TV show.

…

_“Some old wounds never truly heal, and bleed again at the slightest word.”  
Lord Eddard Stark_

\---

Perhaps to prove him wrong, Lady Catelyn allowed Rickon to go on his first hunt. It had been four days since they’d had word and even Robb was finally getting worried. They were breaking their fast when Lord Eddard walked in carrying Rickon in his arms. No one had known what to do with Theon and so he was sitting in the hall with all the rest as it unfolded.

Lord Stark’s eyes were bloodshot and he looked tired to the bone. Rickon was scratched and bruised. The kid’s wild hair was matted with dirt and his first words to his mother were, “Not _my_ ‘ault! Not _my_ fault! Trees moved!” 

Lady Catelyn’s head whipped around to glare at Theon. Under the force of it, he flinched and fixed his eyes on the table. Each word was punctuated and precise as she questioned her husband. “What. Happened?” 

Lord Eddard shrugged, looking like he’d love to be anywhere else but there. “He got a little lost is all. Fell down into a cave. We, er, got him out quickly enough.”

Lady Catelyn walked with measured steps to her husband. When she reached them she picked up her son. She ruffled his hair, checked for damage, and finally let out a weary sigh. “Well, he looks alright. Boys,” she sounded exasperated. She kissed Lord Stark on the cheek and finished, “always getting into trouble. What should I do with you?” 

Theon almost choked as he saw Lord Eddard waggle his eyebrows suggestively. _Oh seven hells. I did not just see that,_ He thought. It was a good thing Robb had finished his food early. He always looked faintly green when his parents courted. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Lady Catelyn playfully slap her husband. Then she walked straight towards Theon. He heard Rickon argue, “’m not lying! Trees moved, mother!”

“I’m sure they did not.” The Lady replied. She stopped dead right in front of Theon and waited. He looked up at her. Her whispered voice gained that Valyrian steel edge he’d very rarely heard from her. “I do not know how you did this under my very nose Greyjoy.” She said. “But I will suss out your game. If you _ever_ hurt him again, you will find that I am not a foe to be taken lightly.”

Theon shrank down in his chair until she passed. _That didn’t go as well as I’d hoped…_ It went even worse when Lady Catelyn hesitated, turned back to Lord Stark and sent him a meaningful look. “Ned,” She said, “I must speak with you.”

“Can’t it wait?” Lord Eddard asked, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“No.” She said.

The two went off to speak privately. Theon dropped his head to the table with an audible thump. _Perhaps I_ am _dead. Mayhap my punishment is to try and try and try and never succeed._ The thought chilled him with a cold as harsh as winter itself. But at the same time, he knew he deserved it. Ramsay was always telling him he deserved pain. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself and started back to his own chambers. In any case, it taught him something. Lady Catelyn only paid attention to him if he had something more than words. Jon Arryn’s death was too far away. _I need something closer. Something they can see and touch and feel right now._ He thought back to the Winterfell of the past. _And I think I have it._

But it would be a week before it happened. And neither the Lord nor the Lady would speak to him at present. Theon sighed and veered off to go find Robb. At least he would listen. His search took him to the Master-at-Arms first. The wind was fierce and cold outside. Ser Cassel’s face was beaten by it and the redness stood out against his white beard. The man smiled a fond smile, “Little Hostage.” He greeted. 

It was a greeting started long ago, when Theon first came to Winterfell and Ser Cassel was charged with teaching him swordplay. He’d usually made himself ignore the words. Sometimes he’d done his best to beat the man to a bloody pulp for the insult, but he’d never so much as landed a real blow. Now he simply wondered why the man said it. Ramsay’s voice echoed in his head, taunting and hard to ignore. _“A hostage, that’s all you were to them.”_

“Are you alright, boy?” Ser Cassel asked, pulling him from his thoughts. 

_Hostage… A person that’s not a person. Just a thing to be disposed of if his father rebelled…_ “Of course,” He said. He tried to ignore his thoughts. They’d only gotten him into trouble before. _Besides,_ he thought, _I beheaded him. Isn’t that punishment enough?_

The other man nodded and dropped the subject. Without the slightest effort Ser Cassel dug a massive sword from a pile by the armory and began honing the edge. Theon felt his heart hammer beneath his ribs. With Ramsay that would be a threat. He quickly asked his question. “DoyouknowwhereRobbis?”

“What?” Ser Cassel shot him a strange look.

Theon took a deep breath and clarified. “Do you know where Robb is?”

The man stroked his beard, tied beneath his chin as usual, and said, “Well, I think I saw him entering the Godswood. Not certain why.”

Theon nodded stiffly. “Thanks.” 

The Godswood was a strange place for Robb to go, but he headed there regardless. He took the long way around though. He could see people watching him from the stalls of the market and it made him nervous. Some of them must have heard of his “threat” on Lord Stark. He’d heard Lord Karstark was talking of it loudly in the streets. _And if I’m just a hostage, what’s to stop them from killing me?_ Before, that thought would’ve inspired anger. Now all he felt was an awful need to hide. He quickened his pace.

“The long way around” consisted of cutting along the edges of the wall and from there into the woods itself. The Godswood was enclosed, so he wasn’t stopped from entering and it was quieter in there than in the city proper, even if the wind was howling around the trees. Or at least it was quieter until he heard the laughter. It was high pitched and sounded young. He slowed his steps and peered around the trees. In a clearing just a little way away two boys were playing at being knights. They were dressed in poor clothing. The quality of the cloth was rough and not very well cut. Their swords were broken sticks, but their faces were washed for the occasion of what must be a very rare visit to the castle. None of that made Theon pause. He stopped dead still because, though he barely remembered the farm he’d visited while sending his search parties out for Bran and Rickon, he recognized the curly hair on those boys’ heads. He recognized the limp the taller one tried to hide. Clearly he’d had it a long time. He recognized the younger one’s green eyes. His breath stuck in his throat and he couldn’t force himself to move. He heard a woman’s voice calling out two names he’d remember ‘till his dying day. The boys responded by throwing down their sticks and scrambling towards the main path. 

_Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods. It won’t come out. Why won’t it come out? Out! Out!_ He was rubbing his hands under scalding water. Over and over. _How… Oh gods. I never saw them killed, how can I be seeing their blood?! Out! Please come out! Oh gods. Out! How could two children have had so much blood?_

“Theon!” 

The shout brought him out of it. He was at the springs. Someone was forcing his hands out of the water. They were red and raw. He glanced up. Robb was looking at him like he’d never seen him before. The boy’s eyes were watery. _From what?_

Robb let his hands go. Theon flinched when he realized he’d been touched. Contact wasn’t as inviting as it used to be. Robb sat back on his heels and asked, “What were you doing?”

Theon looked down. “What would you say if I told you I’d done something terrible?”

For once, Robb didn’t say a word. His eyes held their judgment. _Like a true king._

Theon’s voice grew challenging. “What would you say if I told you you couldn’t do anything about what I’d done. That you cannot punish me. Not yet. That you have to wait three years until I can help. What then?” 

Robb considered for a moment. “Help how?” He asked.

Theon avoided his eyes. “If I tell you now, you’ll never believe me.” Robb almost cut him off, but he quickly said, “A week. Give it a week.” 

“What happens in a week?” Robb asked.

This time Theon met his eyes. “The stars fall through the sky.” He smirked. “Sansa’ll say some rubbish about ‘scattered tears’ or something.”

“The stars?” Robb muttered. Then he shook his head. “Let’s go back.”

“Hang on,” Theon said. “What were you doing in the Godswood?”

Robb toed the dirt. “Uh, praying.” He said.

“You never pray.”

“Thought I’d try it out.”

Theon let it go. For a week he skulked in the shadows of the castle, trying to stay out of the Lord and Lady Stark’s way. Lady Catelyn stiffened up whenever he went near her. Lord Eddard didn’t treat him any differently so far as he could see, but Theon wasn’t about to test that theory too closely. Robb never asked him about the stars and Theon was certain that he’d forgotten about it already. When the day came, he waited until after supper to pull Robb aside. The poor boy was watching Bran, Arya, Jon, and Rickon fight about weapons. 

Bran was saying, “But a White Walker would make the best weapon! They can’t be killed. And Old Nan says they bring famine and plague.”

Rickon happily repeated, “‘ite ‘alker! ‘ite ‘alker!” 

“It’s White Walker, Rickon.” Jon said. He didn’t look happy at Theon’s arrival and pouted at his brother to let him know it. Theon had always thought it was a stupid expression on a stupid face. He still did, Jon Snow just irritated him. But a voice in the back of his mind repeated, _at least Snow’s always been a man. You haven’t always been, have you Reek?_ He felt himself melt into the background at the thought. Why was it that everything and anything reminded him of Ramsay?

He brought himself to the present just as Arya looked Bran in the eye and said, “You’re stupid Bran. Swords are the best. Jon agrees with me.”

“Yep.” Jon said. “Even if you lose a White Walker, you can always pick up someone else’s sword. There’s tons of them around.” 

Theon cleared his throat and tried for a joking tone, “But swords wouldn’t be any good against dragons. So arrows have you beat there.” He felt his smile gaining strength as Snow tried to think of a way around his argument. Judging by the concentration on his face, he was having a hard time of it. “In any case, I’ll need to borrow His Grace for a second.” Theon allowed himself another smile at the name and finished, “C’mon Robb. I told you I’d show you.”

Robb only sighed, good mood apparently gone. The other kids crowded around and became nosy, as usual. Arya stood right in front of him and demanded, “What are you going to show Robb? Can we see?”

“I wanna see too!” Rickon shouted, far louder than he needed to. 

Robb looked resigned and wouldn’t meet Theon’s eyes no matter what he tried. In the old days he would have slung an arm around Robb’s shoulders and found a way to make him laugh. But he had no right to touch his king now. So he just pulled at Robb’s sleeve and said, “You lot can come too if you want. The stars are going to fall tonight.”

“What?!”

“‘tars fall?” Asked Rickon.

“Oh, this is just another story.” Bran kicked at the dirt in disappointment. 

“That’s ridiculous good sers.” A new voice joined them. It was Sansa, who wrinkled her nose as she tried the phrase out. “I heard Jeyne say that the stars are our nameless ancestors, who died long ago and are not remembered in this world.” Her cultured, bossy tones had just a hint of a lisp to them. It seemed to mortify the girl, but it made Arya giggle. 

Theon shrugged at her. He briefly wondered where outspoken Sansa had gone to. He wasn’t sure that there had been a trace of her by the time King Robert came calling. “You can call them what you want. To the Ironborn, each star is a reflection of a great reaver whose death allowed them to dwell with the Drowned God in the sea.” He saw them all glance at each other as if to say, “that’s strange.” 

Personally, Theon agreed with them. _What type of god would drown himself anyway?_ The thought had a tinge of bitterness. It hadn’t been the Drowned God who had sent him back, of that he was certain. He sighed and said, “It doesn’t matter what you think they are, they’re still going to fall.”

He led them outside the gates and craned his neck to look up at the sky. It was dark. The stars were as bright as snow. Arya immediately complained that nothing was happening at all. But she followed as Theon led them up to one of the sentry posts. The building was wooden and had a great, open view of the market, and the sky of course. The guard on duty looked likely to shout at them before he noticed who, exactly, he was seeing. “Ah, milords, miladies. Forgive me.” He shot them a grin. “I shall go on up to the roof for tonight. Just don’t throw vegetables this time, ‘right?” 

Robb cleared his throat and said politely, "We'll behave. Thank you for the courtesy you've done us." Robb's voice sounded stilted, as if he was badly imitating something his father had once said, but it convinced the guard. Everyone settled in, leaning on the railing for support. For a while nothing happened at all and Theon began to doubt whether he’d gotten the date right. He turned to his side and frowned. Robb’s eyes were closed. It looked like he’d fallen asleep standing up. And then Bran shouted, “Look!” 

The sky had erupted. Star after star was shooting through it like arrows from a bow. He heard the Stark children gasp. Next to him, he felt Robb go still. Above, the guard shouted, “Sweet mother!” and the mystery of whether the man was a true northman was instantly solved. 

All around the market, late stragglers were gazing up to the sky in shock. Theon felt a tug on his cloak and he turned to see Bran gazing at him in wonder. “You saw it before it came. You have the Sight. Just like in Old Nan’s stories!” He bounced on the balls of his heels and exclaimed, “Have you Seen any great wars? Are there really monsters beyond the Wall? Oh you have to teach me! You just have to!”

Theon shrugged. “I… don’t know any of that.” _Do a few battles count as a great war?_

Sansa had tears in her eyes. “It’s so beautiful,” she said. “Just like the scattered tears of Ella and Aliser.” 

_Who and who?_ He wondered. But Robb whipped around to face Theon as if he’d been stung. “Rubbish about scattered tears,” he muttered, sounding like he was having a hard time believing anything he was saying. But he turned away and went on to say, “No. No. Maester Luwin must have said something beforehand.”

And Theon’s heart sunk. It was true. Maester Luwin often predicted celestial omens to anyone within hearing distance. All Maesters did. _He_ remembered the event itself but… Honestly, he thought he’d proved himself, and once again no one was _listening._ He sighed and leant all his weight to the railing, half hoping it would fall and take him with it. He jumped when Bran tugged at his sleeve. “What else can you See?” He asked.

_Well, almost no one is listening…_ He rubbed at his forehead, but nothing came to mind. “Err.”’

Then Snow, of all people, gave him his next idea. The boy humphed and said, “If you really had the Sight, you could tell us all the winner of the Icelocked Tourney. But obviously, you can’t.” 

_Oh._ Theon blinked. He remembered that tourney. It was one of the only ones Winterfell had ever hosted, and actually had been the only one they had ever hosted in his lifetime. “What day wa-is that?” He asked, briefly stumbling over his tenses. 

Arya rolled her eyes. “The fifth. Where’ve you been?”

_The fifth._ Two weeks away then. Well, that was close enough. “Fine,” he answered. “I’ll do better than tell you who wins. Ser Gregor stubs his toe and hacks off some man’s head for it.”

The kids gasped. Robb turned around hesitantly, glanced at the sky which was still raining stars, and glanced back. Theon was glad to see some genuine curiosity in his expression. He continued, “One of the knights wets themselves.” _Can’t remember who._

Arya giggled. 

“Annnnnd,” he drew it out, enjoying the pleading looks on the kids faces. “Ser Javier Laster from Yellowbridge wins. He gives his rose to some Southron lady and proposes on the spot.”

Sansa spoke up, predictably saying, “He sounds like a true knight!”

_There._ Theon thought. _There’s no possible way to ignore that._

Robb clapped a hand on his shoulder and said, in what sounded like a false, light tone, “Well, at least we know who to bet on, huh?”

It was such a normal response. For the first time in a while, Theon let out a real laugh. It startled Robb, but thankfully it got him laughing too. By the time they made it back to the castle they were all smiling, just enjoying the night. 

It wasn’t until Theon made it back to his own chambers that he really thought about betting at the tourney. He certainly could. He had an advantage not many had. Frowning, he opened his bedside drawer. There, in a pouch lined in gold thread was more coinage than he had had to himself in years. Back with Ramsay, he’d worn his old clothes until they’d become rags. Sometimes he was fed, and sometimes he wasn’t, but he never did the buying. Having coin seemed almost a foreign concept to him now. He thought of spending it on whores. His old self had probably been planning on doing just that before the fever set in and _he_ had come back. Now though, the thought of someone being that close to him made him nauseous. There were all kinds of things people could do to you when they knew you like _that._

He wasn’t sure he could look those women in the eye anymore. _What kinds of things have I told them?_ Shivers raced up and down his arms. It was far safer to start spending his money on something else. Just as he thought it, he heard Rickon’s laughter reach his room. Being born into a sea of other children, poor Rickon had been delegated to the tower that housed both himself and the Bastard of Winterfell. Gods forbid the Starks have any other children. The runts might be forced to stay right next to _his_ room, bad influence and all. 

His thoughts drifted for a while, but the more he listened, the more the laughter sounded like… sounded like… and suddenly he was back in that forest watching the kids whose lives he’d ended. The attack lasted a long time. He woke up huddled beside the bed crying that _he was sorry! He was so sorry._ At least he’d been quiet. But as he shuffled to the window to look out at the night sky, he realized he was still holding the bag of coins. He looked thoughtfully at it before his eyes strayed off to the east where he thought he remembered their farmhouse to be. Maybe there was something he could do with his gold. 

_I don’t even know if they need it. More like it’s something to drive off the guilt…_ But it was the only option available to him at the moment. _Maybe one day there really will be a way to make it up to them…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm not entirely happy with this chapter. There's not enough action or anything in these opening chapters yet. It'll get there though.
> 
> In case you’re wondering, that was a meteor shower they all witnessed. But obviously, in the Game of Thrones world they wouldn’t call it that. I tried to find if GRRM has any mythology set down about stars, but couldn’t find a single reference to them. So their reactions are somewhat like how characters reacted to the red comet. 
> 
> Did any of you catch the Macbeth reference?
> 
> Also, just so you’re warned, there will be a time skip coming at some point. If you're still reading this, you might be eager to get to where the Game of Thrones plot actually begins, but I have some things in mind on the Ironborn side of things first… ;)
> 
> As before, please leave a review, a like, or a critique. I’d love to hear from you.


	4. Keep it together, Greyjoy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do NOT own Game of Thrones. I am not and will not ever attempt to make money off this fanfic. Honestly, I have my own original stories in the works, alright? 
> 
> This takes place a while after the season 3 finale, so spoilers for everything up to there. This may end up being a mixture of both the books and the TV show.

__

…

__

_“I'm not entirely sure what you're suggesting.”_

_“I'm entirely sure, you're entirely sure, what I'm suggesting.”_

_Varys & Tyrion Lannister_

\---

The day of the tourney dawned bright and clear. Even though it was summer there was a thin layer of snow on the ground and it crunched under his steps. Colorful banners hung on the rafters and happy chatter assaulted his ears. There were large crowds everywhere Theon turned. It was all a little much. He had his arms crossed and his shoulders hunched trying to avoid it. He was also trying to avoid young Bran. The kid had taken to following him around after he’d shown him the falling stars. Apparently he was hoping for some of Theon’s “Sight” to rub off on him. Theon wondered if he should correct him about what really happened, but then decided against it. _A third eye is easier to believe than coming back from the dead to change the past._

He walked up to the stands and glanced about. Robb and his family were sitting to the left. To his right, the nobles from other houses, including the beautiful Southron lady, were camped. The last time around, he’d gone over to introduce himself to her. She’d smiled and accepted a kiss, but even then he’d thought she’d looked rather preoccupied. This time, he already knew there was no point. She was to be married and he honestly wasn’t up to it. He saw Robb waving him over enthusiastically and began to head that way. That is, until Bran ran in front of him.

“How did you get the Sight?” He asked. “You can’t have always had it. I’d have known.”

_Well that’s certainly not a question I want to answer._ “You’re… not ready to hear that.” Theon replied rather evasively.

Bran stamped his foot. “I want to know!”

Theon flinched and walked faster, hoping he wouldn’t be asked again. _Stop shouting at me._ Bran seemed to understand and changed tactics. “You can tell me in a story, if that’s easier.” He coaxed.

Walking faster seemed the only way out of the interrogation. Unfortunately he hadn’t been looking where he was going. By the time he realized he should pay attention, he was already falling.

_Ouch!_ He was sprawled on the ground and one foot was not very happy about it. He sat up to look at what he’d fallen over and came face to face with another face. His eyes widened as he took it in. It was a helmet in the shape of a Shadowcat’s head, large fangs overlapping with the mouthpieces closed. It was the same helmet that the Mountain that Rides had tripped over during the tourney the first time around. Since it had been hidden in the taller grass, it hadn’t been easy to notice. A voice reached him, “Lad, ya alright?”

A weathered man reached down and took the helmet from the turf. “Someone coulda killed thisselves on this. Glad ya found it ‘fore the tourney though.”

As the man walked off, Theon stood up. A sense of foreboding came over him. “Bran,” he said. “I think I just changed something.”

Bran looked appropriately solemn.

The tourney went on as scheduled. Most everyone, excepting Lord Stark and his bastard, cheered wildly as it began. Jousting was the main attraction, as the North had melees every now and then, ones the Southroners called “barbaric,” and so they were nothing new. The first joust had one rider in black and another decked in so many green tassels it was a wonder his horse could run. The first run went off without a hitch. A crack resounded in the air as both riders bashed their lances on the other’s shield. Beside him, Bran winced at the sound. Theon had to hold onto to the wooden bleachers beneath him not to do the same. The second run was little more than a joke, thankfully. Both riders missed. One by just a hair, while the other veered so wildly off course, the crowd started jeering. The rider in black won the next round by unhorsing the green rider entirely. The sound of armor hitting the earth was sudden and jarring.

Theon hadn’t even noticed he’d jumped until Robb clasped a hand to his shoulder. Theon relaxed until he heard Jon’s annoyed whisper of, “Keep it together, Greyjoy.”

Theon threw a mild glare in the bastard’s direction, and then instantly felt surprise at himself for having done so. He wasn’t the only one to feel a kind of stunned awe going into the next round.

The Mountain that Rides, the enormous Gregor Clegane, had stepped out onto the field. He was wearing deep red and a helmet so lifelike it could have come from a real lion. The only way to tell the difference was to look for the shine of the steel. It was an odd choice of outfit to anyone that didn’t know who really paid the Mountain’s way. He may have been a Baratheon Knight, but Tywin Lannister was the one who held the reigns. Everyone knew it even before the war. It took breathless minutes before any kind of cheer went up, and even then it was halfhearted and wary. Murmurs of “Elia Martell” and “Dorne” began to circulate.

Clegane didn’t seem very happy to hear them.

“Raaahhhggggggggggghhhhhhhhhh!!!” The man let out the kind of bellow one would expect from someone his size. It silenced the crowd. In the sudden hush, the announcer yelled, “and the challenger! Squire Tuwin of Duskendale! For his very first…” a clearing of the throat, “his very first match.”

Everyone turned to watch the poor man. Theon sighed. Squire Tuwin was of below average size and build. Beside the gargantuan Mountain, he looked barely a man at all. Theon was sure he could see him shaking, but Squire Tuwin took up his position all the same. All the Starks were on the edge of their seats. Bran would actually have fallen off of his, but Jon managed to pull him back just as the two riders began to race at each other.

Clegane didn’t lose any time and aimed his lance just a little below where it should have been aimed. It would have been a maiming shot if the other rider hadn’t hastily charged his horse away from it. One of the Stark guards shook his head and detained the Mountain. With a disgusted snort, Gregor Clegane threw off his helmet and said he’d play by the rules. The next run was a good one, with one miss and one light hit from the squire. At the next run Theon put his head in his hands. He knew the way this was going to go.

The Mountain’s destrier pawed the ground in impatience. The other horse shied away just a little. And then they were off, racing madly toward each other. The Mountain raised his lance high. Squire Tuwin raised his too. But then the squire fumbled the weapon, the Mountain took full advantage, and among the almighty roars of Gregor Clegane the squire raced back out of reach and threw his hands up. “I yield!” He yelled.

In rage, the Mountain rode up to the man and shoved him to the dirt. The squire was close enough for everyone to see the stain on his pants. He was booed off the field. Arya immediately turned to Theon and yelled over the crowd, “That was amazing!” She had the largest grin on her face.

Sansa merely looked disappointed in the poor display of knighthood, while Bran had a look on his face Theon chose to interpret as “and I want to grow up and do this?”

But the match wasn’t over. As soon as Gregor was announced as the winner, he spat on the ground and ran his horse to the Stark side of the stands. The ground rumbled. The lance let out a shriek as it glanced against the wooden siding. The man sped past with a scowl on his ugly face. Theon, and the rest of the crowd, only breathed again when the man was as far as possible from them. “What was that about?” Robb muttered.

“I think he’s just angry,” Theon whispered.

Beside him, Robb tilted his head in a thoughtful way and Theon knew he was thinking about Theon’s earlier predictions. Theon could only hope that the tourney would help, but… he had an awful feeling about the rest of it. It was when Ser Gregor went for his second round that Theon truly knew he’d messed up, however. Nothing happened.

The joust went off without a hitch.

The Mountain didn’t trip.

No one was beheaded.

_Which, I suppose is a good thing, but still… I’ll never convince Robb now..._

When Ser Javier won the tourney, he rode around the edge of the stands searching every lady’s face. When he came to the Southron lady he stopped and threw his rose to her. His voice was soft as he said, “I crown you, my lady, as the Queen of Love and Beauty.”

Lord Stark passed the wreath of flowers to the man, looking so very bored it was funny. But the crowning was soon over and Ser Javier made his announcement. “My lady,” he said, just as before. “I must ask you to join me for a private audience. I know not any woman more beautiful than you and I would relish the pleasure of your company.”

_Wait. What?_

That hadn’t been what he’d said the last time! He had said… He had said… _“My lady. I must ask for your hand. Today’s events have shown me just how fragile every waking moment is and I can wait no longer…”_

_Seven hells!_

Bran frowned at him, looking slightly betrayed. “He didn’t propose.”

Theon could only shake his head. “Because he didn’t see the beheading, he didn’t propose. Madness.” He muttered. He turned to Bran, wanting something to go right for once and insisted, “Look for the bride’s cloak after the tourney.”

If the Southron lady was wearing her cloak of arms, later to be changed out for the groom’s cloak at the wedding, it would be a telltale sign that they had been engaged. Bran looked dubious, but nodded. From beside Theon, Robb snorted out a laugh. The red-haired boy elbowed him, though Theon noticed Robb took care not to make it a sudden movement. And then the eldest Stark spoke. “You had me going for a while there. I admit it. I’m not sure how you did it.” Blue eyes met his, turning serious in an instant. “You don’t have to have the Sight for us to keep you here, Theon. We will not abandon you.”

It was probably the nicest thing Theon had ever heard.

From anybody.

How had Robb known he’d been worried about that? Theon knew of course that it was much better for a mad hostage to mysteriously “die of a fever” or be murdered by bandits than for Balon Greyjoy to figure out his only male heir was off his head. But most of the Starks hadn’t seemed to put that together yet. _Of course, my father doesn’t need me to be sick to be disappointed. The fact that I’ve been living as a Stark is enough for him._ But Robb didn’t know about that either.

Somehow though, Robb had seen his fear and had said the exact thing he’d needed to hear. Theon huffed out a laugh, leaning back against the stands. “Thanks.” He said. And then he remembered that Robb still didn’t believe him. He jolted upright. “But I wasn’t lying!”

Robb laughed and pulled him from the seat. “C’mon. Let’s get to the feast!” He said.

The meal was a lavish affair. There were dishes from the north and dishes from the south. There were light foods from the Neck, mostly fish-based as the Neck was all marsh, and desserts from King’s Landing, which consisted of girly lemon cakes and various fruit tarts. The main dish was honeyed chicken, which had Theon practically drooling. He’d been too distracted to properly enjoy food for the longest time, but the tourney’s feast was strongly reminding him that he had once liked to eat. He listened to the toast, which was a short one that practically said “thank you for coming, now let’s eat.” And then he looked to Robb. The boy was seated at the high table along with his mother, father, and siblings. When he began slicing _his_ chicken, Theon took it as his cue to start his own meal. He badly wanted to ask if it was okay, if he was free to eat, but he knew the Lady Stark would frown on such behavior at such a public occasion. He had asked it every day so far though, ever since he’d come back to Winterfell. It was hard to stop.

_Is it alright?_

He must have said it out loud. Snow, who was sitting next to him, cleared his throat. “It’s fine,” the boy said. He looked embarrassed. “You can eat.”

Theon’s jaw must have dropped. He made fun of the bastard and the bastard yelled at him; that was their normal relationship. He couldn’t remember the last time any of them had been nice to one another. Snow looked at him defiantly and said, “I don’t like you. But it’s horrible watching you starve,” and went back to eating.

Near the end of the feast, Bran excused himself. Before he left the hall he walked up to Theon. “You were right,” he began, his voice quiet. He nodded at the Southron lady from the jousting tourney. Theon noticed she was wearing her cloak and coat of arms. She was smiling the way only a newly engaged woman would. Bran continued, “The future is not yet determined. You have to be very careful.” The kid’s face was solemn and stern, as if he thought the fate of Westeros rested on Theon’s shoulders.

_In a way it almost does. Gods help us._

Jon turned to Theon as Bran left for his room. He had one eyebrow raised. “I worry for him.” He said.

It was at that moment that the doors to the hall burst open. A man ran in with a scroll of parchment in hand. “Lord Stark!” He cried. “Ironborn have been sighted at Torrhen’s Square, less than two days march! They sent this.”

He handed the missive to Lord Eddard, who opened it gravely. After reading it, he gestured Theon’s way. “Come,” he said quietly.

He rose unsteadily and tried not to worry. _My father is coming here? Oh no, oh no, oh no._ By the time he reached Lord Stark, Robb and his mother had joined them. They held the meeting in one of the towers, far from the reach of prying ears. Once they locked the door Lady Catelyn hurried to her husband. “What does it say? How much do they know?”

“They’ve heard rumors of Theon’s sickness. They couch their upcoming landing in terms of making a visit to their liege lord, but in some places they’re as blunt as ever. They want to know if the boy’s too unstable to ever rule the Iron Islands.” Lord Stark said.

Robb frowned. “What if they do find him,” he carefully didn’t look at Theon as he said, “unstable?”

The Lady answered him. “Then there is no barrier keeping them from reaving or rebelling again.”

The silence was unbearable. Theon had no idea what to say. He couldn’t control his outbursts. Sooner or later his father would witness one and see just how unfit he was. He would probably call him a greenlander and a woman before marching off to gather his fleet. It was not an inviting prospect for any of them. Finally, after the quiet nearly choked them all, Lord Eddard crossed his arms and made a decision. He looked straight at Theon. “We will have to keep you out of their sight as often as possible. You understand, of course?” Theon nodded with no hesitation. The man looked grateful before continuing, “I can keep Balon occupied for much of the time with inquiries about his lands, how he is faring, and things of that nature. I can also set up a training schedule for his men so they’re not idle. That leaves your mother and sibling, I suppose.”

Robb started. “You have a brother or sister?” He asked. He sounded surprised.

Theon’s face crinkled up in annoyance and then softened in memory. “Asha. My sister is a holy terror. She and Arya would get along well.”

“Perhaps she’s changed?” Robb suggested.

“No,” Theon insisted. “She’s just gotten worse.” He didn’t explain how he knew that. “As regards my mother and sister,” he turned his attention to Lord Stark, “My mother, Lady Alannys, will not be coming. She isn’t well and will be left at Harlaw, no doubt.” He huffed out a bitter laugh. “Perhaps madness runs in the family. My sister will be along though, I think. And she’ll want to see me.”

He trailed off. He couldn’t say it aloud, but he almost wanted to see her too. He wanted to thank her, even if she wouldn’t know what he was thanking her for. He was glad that the reunion wouldn’t be the same as last time. He knew what she looked like now and certainly wouldn’t flirt with her. He shuddered. It was just like Asha to string him along to humiliate him. Now that he was remembering, he was also remembering the times she used to trick him into thinking that his fur bed coverings would come alive at night and eat him. Or that there were mermaids in the pond and if he was lucky he could find one to marry. Or that if you ate a squid, the krakens would know and then you’d never be a Greyjoy. Gods, his sister really was an awful person.

He suddenly realized that they’d been trying to talk to him. He brought his thoughts back on track. Lady Catelyn was looking impatient, but both Robb and his father seemed not to mind his sudden unavailability. Lord Stark cleared his throat. “Theon?” He made sure he had Theon’s attention. “I was saying I would like you to sit at the high table for now. Just until they leave.” He trailed off then.

Theon’s eyebrows jumped to his hairline. _Now if that’s not politically motivated, nothing is._ He had another thought. _Just wait until Snow hears about this._ “Of course,” he agreed. Then he furrowed his brows in thought. His father wouldn’t just be searching for signs of madness. He would be searching for weakness as well. “I, er.” He coughed and suddenly realized that he was about to ask for something very, very bold. Just the thought of their possible reactions made him want to climb under the table and hide. He shrank back and kept his head down as he said, “My father is Ironborn, my lord.”

Lady Stark allowed a severe frown to cross her pretty face. “Yes. What of it boy?”

“Well,” Theon took a deep breath. “The people of the Iron Islands… act differently. He will be expecting me to act differently than I do here.” His voice had thinned so as to become almost nonexistent. He tried to strengthen it. “He will expect rougher clothing and a more… vicious attitude. I’m not sure I can…” He shook his head. A ghost of a smirk passed across his face. “I ask leave to behave like a savage for the duration of their visit.”

Lady Catelyn looked shocked. But Lord Eddard was more contemplative. Well, he was the only Stark that had actually witnessed real Iron Islanders after all. Robb, on the other hand, had an entirely too mischievous smile on his face. He grinned at Theon and commented, “Are you going to go around like a wildling? Stealing people and calling us ‘kneelers?’”

Theon frowned, a little offended. “Greyjoys aren’t _wildlings._ We’re Northmen too.”

And then he realized that he’d just talked back. To his _king._ He was so astonished at himself that he forgot to react. Robb only laughed. Theon could feel himself blushing like a maid. “I may have to go around with a knife or hunt my own food or something. I dunno.” He said.

Lord Stark sighed. He didn’t look at all reassured. “At some point after they arrive I will send you out with a hunting party then. And I’ll tell my men to excuse your behavior. Lord Karstark is gone, at least. That’s a blessing.”

Lady Catelyn seemed dubious. “You do know you cannot kill anyone?”

Robb snorted. “Ha! Theon couldn’t hurt a fly.” He teased.

It was something he’d never have said before. Maybe, the first time around, Robb had begun to sense just how far Theon had been willing to go…

Lord Eddard sarcastically muttered, “And that’s the perfect thing for Balon to see” at the same time as Theon thought, _you have no idea Robb. You really have no idea._ The thought was sad.

He was dismissed when they had no more to discuss. Robb went with him to find some more suitable clothing. Once they arrived at Theon’s chambers he began rifling through his wardrobe. The red-haired boy next to him grinned. “I’m not sure you own anything, err,” _Say it, I dare you,_ Theon thought halfheartedly, remembering the endless japes Robb had had about his clothing choices. Robb finished, “‘different’ or ‘vicious.’ Just wear your hunting outfit?” He suggested.

In the end, they settled on that, though he’d had to leave behind the cloak he usually wore with it. He stuffed his finer outfits in the back of the wardrobe and wished he could borrow a spare cloak of Robb’s. The summer chill was still cold enough to freeze, but all of Robb’s cloaks were trimmed with wolf fur and that wasn’t the sort of statement Theon wanted to make. Briefly he wondered what the Direwolves had made of what everyone wore. _Did the stupid mutts even notice? Did they mourn their lost kin every time they happened to glance up?_

Shaking off the thought, he rifled through his drawer for his dagger. When he drew it out, he sighed. Robb looked over his shoulder and took it from him, balancing it on his hand. It had perfect heft, Theon knew. “What’s wrong with it?” Robb asked.

The weapon had been a gift from Robb for Theon’s name day, but the ruby embedded in the pommel certainly hadn’t been paid for with the Iron Price. Robb crossed his arms. “He can’t have a problem with it, can he?” He said.

Theon sensed irritation. The issue was now clearly personal. He was quick to appease. “ _I_ like it Robb.” He couldn’t look at the boy as he explained what “Iron Price” meant. _What if he becomes really offended and takes it out on me and flays another finger and—_

“Ugh, fine,” Robb conceded. “We’ll go get a plain one from the armory.”

It only took a quick trip to find a good enough blade. They found the armorer working the forge. Mikken greeted them with a, “Milords! What can I do for you?”

When they asked for a plain dagger, he seemed rather confused. “But I have plenty o’ well-made ones. Ya could go raid a wildling camp if ya just wanted a plain one fit for a commoner. Don’t see why you’re asking me abou’ it.” The man was beginning to look insulted.

Robb grinned, “We didn’t say anything about it not being well-made. Give me the best, plainest dagger you’ve got.”

The man brought one fit for a soldier. Thankfully, the direwolf sigil was small enough to be overlooked. Theon strapped it to the outside of his thigh and hoped he looked Ironborn enough. He turned to Robb, “Scared yet?” He asked.

His best vicious expression had Robb almost in tears from laughter. _Well that’s exactly the opposite of what I was going for,_ he thought. Had no one ever taken him seriously? And why was it that he was just realizing it now? He sighed and muttered, “I’ll practice that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silly quote is silly and only vaguely fits.
> 
> So, I just wanted to say a big thank you to everyone who reviewed or left a kudos or a bookmark. :D 50 kudos is a lot! I'm sorry this took so long to upload, but it's a longer chapter, so... does that make up for it? ^^'
> 
> Please leave a review, a like, or a critique. I’d love to hear from you.


	5. The Ironborn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do NOT own Game of Thrones. I am not and will not ever attempt to make money off this fanfic. Honestly, I have my own original stories in the works, alright? 
> 
> This takes place a while after the season 3 finale, so spoilers for everything up to there. This may end up being a mixture of both the books and the TV show.

_…_

_“Your loyalty to your captors is touching. Tell me, how do you think Balon Greyjoy would feel knowing his only surviving son had turned lackey.”_

_Tyrion Lannister_

_\---_

The Ironborn arrived a few days later. Theon was at supper when the news reached him. Sitting at the high table was nerve wracking as it was, but sitting there when Balon Greyjoy marched in had to be the worst. Lord Eddard rose and inclined his head, though not as much as he would for any other lord. “Welcome, Lord Greyjoy. We’ve set aside accommodations—”

Balon didn’t let him finish. “Where’s my wolf of a son?” He interrupted.

Seeing the man again brought all Theon’s pent up anger to the surface. His father’s hair was balding up the middle of his scalp and just as thin as he remembered it. He still had the same unhappy, downturned expression on his face as if he was already prepared to banish Theon for being a terrible disappointment. And, back then, his father had slapped him! Slapped him like he really was the whore he’d called him. Theon drew his dagger and slammed it into the table. “I am no wolf.” He said.

Lady Catelyn was seething at him from her seat, but she wouldn’t interfere yet. At least he hoped. The plan was to make it seem as if he was uncontrollable. That the Starks could hold him, but not tame him. He met his father’s eyes. Fear flooded him, but he had to contain it. He had to. He only looked away for a second and after that he swallowed his terror and held the man’s gaze. His father just scoffed. Balon ran his eyes over Theon’s hunting clothes and said in disdain, “Is that the way you dress to greet your father? The Lord of the Iron Islands?”

Everyone was watching them as if they were witnessing a swordfight. Theon fished up a washed out smirk. “I am Ironborn.” He answered. “We do not sow and we do not care for frivolous clothes.”

There, that was safe. He knew that answer. Theon was trying to keep his sentences as short as possible. One misstep and it was all over. And honestly, he knew very little of his father’s world. He had a feeling if he brought up some of Old Nan’s Ironborn stories some of the details were bound to be a bit… exaggerated. His father humphed, still unimpressed. “What is dead,” he started.

“May never die but rises again, harder and stronger.” Theon tried to put on an equally unconcerned air. But the man’s face stayed as blank as a slate. He couldn’t tell how impressive he was acting, no more than he could the last time and it was making him horribly worried. Finally, without even coming close enough to shake his hand, his father took a seat at one of the side tables. He waved a hand and said, “Go ahead.”

Theon assumed that meant he should finish eating. He nodded in the most respectful way he could manage and sat down. He ignored the knife still sticking out of the table. Lord Stark sent him a weary look for it, but he thought he noticed Balon quirk a smile. _A_ smile! It was something he couldn’t remember ever earning from the man in his life. Robb hadn’t seen it. Two seats away from him, the boy passed him a sympathetic look. Theon stuffed his face full of roast mutton so it wouldn’t be so obvious that he fully appreciated the sentiment.

A shadow crossed his food and a voice said, “Miss me?” in such a cocksure way that he would’ve known it anywhere.

“Asha!” He shouted. He looked up at her.

And there she was; hair pulled back, clothes all awry from days spent on deck, three different knives strapped to her sides. He was hugging her before he realized what he was doing. He’d had to lean over the table to do it, so part of his tunic was now dripping in wine. He found he didn’t care. “Thank you,” he said. It was sincere. _Thank you for coming for me when no one else would._

Her mouth opened in surprise. “You remember me?” She paused. “Thank you for what?”

 _Ah, oops._ He backtracked. “Thank you for coming.” He said. He tried out another smirk. “Of course I remember you. Still as boyish as ever, I see.”

She rolled her eyes, “I do try, baby brother.” She said, but her face was creased in a wider smile than any he could ever remember seeing on her. Then she noticed Lady Stark was sending her disapproving glances. Asha and Theon were the only ones still standing. His sister sent Lady Catelyn a more tactful nod than Balon ever would have and sauntered over to sit down by their father. The father whose face was carefully blank again. Balon stared at Theon for an awkwardly long moment before he turned to his own dish. _Now what have I done?_ Theon found himself thinking. He didn’t get a chance to know. As soon as the Ironborn was done with his dish, Lord Stark began talking to him about the finances of certain fishing ships and “you would know more than I do about the sea, and my wife wants to know what dish is best to serve at tourneys and weddings.” Cough. “You know women.” Poor, silent Lord Stark was already scrambling for topics. But even Balon couldn’t get out of the conversation without seeming suspiciously rude. Theon finished his wine and prepared to hide out in his bedchamber, but Asha reached him first.

“Show me the castle.” She ordered.

A stab of panic raced through him. He wanted to look around for permission, but he forced himself to meet her gaze. _I cannot seem weak. Weak, weak, it rhymes with…_ He strangled that thought in its tracks.

He must have been silent for too long since Asha turned back to him. “You alright?” She asked. Her face was the same stoic mask Balon used. Strange, Theon used to mask everything with a smile. He didn’t anymore, but it made him wonder if any of his relatives had ever done the same.

“Of course,” he answered her. He led her toward the Great Keep. From the bridge connecting to the keep, one could see the entire yard. He let her look, giving out little snippets of what things were called and why they were there. Otherwise, he kept silent. He showed her the armory, the smithy, and the stables, before she stopped him. “Do you practice swordplay?” She asked. There was something strange about her tone.

He couldn’t tell what the right answer was, but he knew she was searching for something. So he put on a brazen face and nodded, “Yes, though I’m more skilled at archery.”

She looked at him very calmly. “Never call it swordplay, brother. It is war and killing you are practicing for.”

Annoyance crossed his face. _I’ll call it whatever I damned well please. The name matters not._ “Yes, mother,” he answered sarcastically.

And then he realized that the reaction hadn’t been motivated by the need to act like an Ironborn. Asha simply made him irritated as no one else could.

She barked out a laugh. “Show me what you can do,” was all she said.

They weren’t the only ones gracing the practice yard. Snow and little Arya were there too, playing with blunted blades. Asha watched them for a while, until they noticed her presence. Snow didn’t react to her, but he gave Theon his customary unhappy glare while Arya mimicked him by turning her nose up like she could smell a chamber pot. He knew there was a reason he’d never really liked her. Asha watched them curiously. “Who are they?” She asked.

She sounded more impressed by their lack of respect, then by any amount of proper respect he could have been shown. Go figure. “Lord Stark’s bastard, Jon Snow,” it was an unusual move for him, but he kept his voice down as he said, “bastard.” He didn’t want the trouble the word would cause. “And the Stark’s second girl, Arya.” He finished.

“Why don’t they like you?” She asked.

Theon could have laughed. “They don’t like salt, I suppose.”

It was perfectly true. Snow’s most “cutting” slight had been to insist that Theon had saltwater for blood. He’d often taken it as a compliment. Asha wasn’t letting the insult go though. “I think they need to know what being Ironborn is all about,” she told him.

She went to the wall and plucked an axe off the rack. She swung it once before catching it in her palm and then calmly chucked it at straw target. Of course, it was a straw target that sat halfway between Jon and Arya. Theon was fairly sure he’d muttered a shocked, “Oh gods,” when he saw it happen.

Snow had a more adverse reaction. “Are you trying to kill us?!” He shouted.

Asha ambled over to him. “No. I never miss.”

Poor Snow seemed very out of his depth. The kid was flustered as he said, “But you threw an axe at us.”

“No,” Asha insisted again. “I threw it at the target. You were just in the way.” She put her hands on her hips and smirked. “It was also a way to remind you that we Ironborn are a force to be reckoned with. Turn your nose up at one of our raiders and you’re likely to have your head taken clean off. Just a friendly warning.”

Asha turned her back on them and began walking to the archery range, still apparently intent on seeing his skill with a bow. Arya didn’t let the opportunity go to waste. Theon didn’t even have time to move as she drew her practice sword and charged at his sister, growling like a dog. Just before the Stark girl reached her, Asha stilled, fluidly spun out of the way, and then parried Arya’s blade with the knife she’d pulled from seemingly nowhere. Arya grunted, but didn’t give up and Snow leapt to her assistance as Asha spun for another axe, very clearly showing off. The skirmish was over before Snow reached them. The flat of Asha’s axe had pinned Arya’s sword to the ground. “Do you yield?” His sister asked.

Little Arya scowled, but answered, “Yes.” Then she dropped her sword and bopped up next to his sister, asking, “Can you teach me?”

“What?”

“Can you teach me to use one of those?” Arya asked. Her look had changed to one of adoration. “You’re just like one of the warrior women from the stories!” She explained, excited.

Theon sighed as he joined them, “Your mother’s not going to be happy with that.” He said.

“Who cares?” Arya retorted.

There was a second where no one said anything. Asha’s face was blank, but her fingers were twitching as if she was conflicted and he knew she was wondering whether teaching a wolf to bite was a good idea. In the end, the fact that she’d found a kindred spirit seemed to win out. His sister laughed. “You have spunk, girl. Meet me later tonight and we’ll get started.” She said.

Before she left to pick up a bow, she put her hand on Snow’s shoulder. “You have talent with a sword, boy. Meet me in battle one day. I’ll look forward to it.”

Jon blushed up to his hairline. “A-alright,” he said.

When they left the kids, Theon had to snort. “I knew you two would get along.” He said.

Asha nodded thoughtfully and said, “Hard to believe a _Stark_ has so much spirit. If only she were Ironborn…”

Theon looked back at the two. Arya was trying to heft an enormous axe in her tiny hands and Snow was still staring after Asha. The blush hadn’t left his face. Theon would have been annoyed if there wasn’t such a large age, not to mention experience, difference between the two. _Poor kid. If that’s his type of girl he’s going to be eaten alive one day._

Asha reached the archery range before he did. She picked up a bow and frowned. “Long range weapons,” she muttered grumpily.

Theon couldn’t help but chuckle. It was coming easier the longer he knew his sister. “Your axe was a long range weapon too when you threw it.” He said.

She glared at him. “That’s not the same.”

“Of course not,” he said, but he smiled when he said it. Reaching passed his sister, he picked up a bow. He marveled at the feel of it. There was a time when he thought he’d never again hold one. It was a blessing to have the weapon back in his hands. The arrows were sitting in a barrel close by. He placed a few into his quiver and adjusted the bracer on his arm. Then he took up position in front of one of the lesser abused straw targets. The arrows he’d chosen had white goose feather fletching. It would be easy to see where they landed even on such an overcast day. While he nocked an arrow, his sister watched intently. He barely needed to take a breath before he loosed it. It hit the center, right in the middle of the bullseye, just as he knew it would. His next four hit a spot just to the left, in the diamond formation that was the last thing that the Master Archer had asked him to practice. One above, one below, and finally two to the sides.

When he was finished, he turned to his sister. Asha made no outward expression, but she didn’t disparage his skill. All she said was, “It’s not a sword or an axe, but it isn’t nothing either.”

That was good enough for him. He spent the remainder of that day showing Asha the rest of Winterfell. The only thing she seemed to like was the hot springs. “Finally,” she’d muttered, “so there _is_ water.” The Ironborn were to stay a week, and near the end of it Theon was feeling good about his chances of making it through unscathed. There were a few close calls, but he was always able to salvage them somehow. Also, true to Lord Stark’s promise, Theon rarely saw Balon. But the day before they were to leave his father insisted on seeing him. Theon was sitting in his chambers when the man was escorted in. Asha followed behind him, looking more grave than was usual.

Balon closed the door and looked around. “It’s warm,” he said, scowling.

 _And that’s a bad thing?_ “Yes,” he answered. He wasn’t sure what else to say. Winterfell was built upon natural hot springs and the water was piped through the very walls. Theon happened to like it. He cleared his throat, “Err, you wished to see me?”

Balon crossed to a chair and sat down on it. He leaned back upon it as if it was a throne. Asha moved to stand behind the man, her face almost a mirror image of his father’s. Balon Greyjoy’s voice creaked like an old sail as he asked, “Who is the god of the Iron Islands, boy?”

Theon furrowed his brow. “The Drowned God.” He said.

“And where do warriors sail to when they die?”

“The Drowned God’s Halls.” He answered.

“And where do those who are not godly in the ways of the Ironborn, and those who are not warrior’s, go?” His father asked.

Theon stilled. He had no answer to that question and he really wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He swallowed and looked away. “I don’t know,” he said.

“You do not _know,_ ” Balon echoed.

It wasn’t easy to reign in his anger. _Of course I don’t know! You gave me away. Why would my captors teach me your ways?_ He walked to the window and took a deep breath as he looked out. The sun was shining over Winterfell and each ray seemed to make the snow adorning the castle sparkle below it. It was a beautiful day. Theon wished he could appreciate it. He turned back to his father and stared him in the eye. “I have not been taught all of our customs. But I’m a quick study.”

“You’re a _quick study._ ” Balon echoed again. His voice sounded derisive.

Asha came to his defense. “Father,” she said. “The Starks would try to keep him from learning about us as much as they could. And you saw how they acted around him. They don’t even know what to do with him,” she sounded almost… proud. “From what I’ve seen, he’s fierce as a reaver. His lack of knowledge does not make him any less Ironborn.”

Theon stared. Asha hadn’t said a word when his father had taken to berating him the first time around. Of course, back then he wouldn’t have cared if she _had_ said a thing. But now… Her newfound confidence in him was startling. He stood a little straighter, a familiar feeling filling up his chest. Theon had always wanted to make someone proud, to get someone’s attention. He hadn’t even known what he was doing until Ramsay had told him. _You’re pathetic,_ he’d said. _Always showing off and always acting out. But daddy wasn’t around to notice was he? And the Lord and Lady Wolfpelt couldn’t have cared less could they?_ After he’d processed what his jailor had said, Theon had spent the entire night wondering if the man with those fathomless, icy eyes was right. It was only later he learned that Ramsay was always right.

But never, never, had Theon directed that attention toward his sister. He’d never even given her a thought. But now… now… he found that he didn’t want to let her down.

Balon seemed as conflicted by Asha’s words as he was. He’d closed his eyes to take in her advice. Then he rose from his seat and wandered the room, opening drawers and delaying his answer by fiddling with the contents. As he opened the wardrobe, he said, “You may one day be a great raider, girl. But you aren’t yet.” Despite the words, his father’s voice held more respect in it than Theon had ever heard the man display. “Even you can be blinded by blood.” He trailed off. When he spoke again, his voice was sharp. “What is this?”

Theon looked up. Dangling from the man’s hands were several of his best shirts. _Oh no._ “Those are… uh, Snow's.” He quickly lied. He racked his mind for a plausible reason. “He’s always stuffing his clothes in my chambers… because… because his wardrobe is full.” He finished lamely.

Asha snorted. Her eyes had hardened in disappointment. “And I suppose he wears the Greyjoy sigil on all his tunics?” She asked.

Theon winced. Asha had marched up to the wardrobe to have a look at them herself. She was pointing straight at the Greyjoy Kraken embroidered in gold thread on the leather. “Fine,” he conceded, “they’re mine.” He muttered, “I could still kill you while wearing them, y’know.”

“That, baby brother, I truly doubt.” She said.

His father faced him. “Did our noble Lord Stark find it fitting to dress you like a whore?” His voice was low and dangerous. He swiped something off the shelf inside the wardrobe and held it out in front of his nose. It was one of Theon’s gold rings. “Are you a woman that needs gold thread and jewels? Did you pay the Iron Price for any of this?”

Theon struggled to come up with something, anything to say. His sister beat him to it. “You used to know better than that. You’re more of a greenlander than I thought,” she said.

She dropped what she was holding and marched back to the window, arms crossed. She wouldn’t look at him. Theon stared after her. His shoulders sunk as he realized just how easily he’d disappointed her. “Look,” he said. He tried to take control of the situation. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t matter!?” Balon spun on his heel. His expression was beyond angry. It was livid with frustration. “No Ironborn would ever follow you!”

“I would _make_ them.” Theon insisted.

His father stomped closer. “You’re a land walker. A horse rider.”

“I belong on a ship.” _I want to belong._

“You,” Balon stamped a foot almost on top of Theon’s own boot, “will never,” he raised a hand, “be an Iron Islander!”

Theon knew the blow was coming before it happened. And he did the only thing he was allowed to do. He flinched. Because Ramsay never let him fight back. It was worse if you fought. _It’s always worse. Don’t fight, don’t ever fight. Doesn’t matter if you know kings or lords or can string a bow or bribe thousands, he will find you, he will always find you and then you’ll be sorry and maybe he’ll make you beg to cut it off, but it won’t matter. He is there before the after and after the before and only saltwater stops him and I’m not saltwater. I never was._

“Theo—”

_Kings rise and fall on his father’s word. Leech lords and Lannisters and down goes the King in the North and his wife and his empire, all in one—_

“Theon!”

Asha’s words finally registered. He looked around. He was curled up on the floor, his arms around his knees. His sister was kneeling next to him. She had her hand out as if to touch him, but she pulled back when she saw the awareness in his eyes. Balon was back in the chair, his face white. In front of Theon, Asha leaned back on her heels. Her voice was troubled as she said, “What have the Starks done to you?”

“What? Nothing!” Theon shook his head violently. “They haven’t done anything. I was sick and the fever was bad. Sometimes I don’t know where I am or what I’m saying… but it’s not so awful. It doesn’t happen a lot.”

The silence was unbearable. Finally, Balon spoke. “Are you covering for them?” The man’s eyes were closed again, as if he was steeling himself for the worst.

“No,” His voice squeaked. _This is bad, this is very bad. I can’t salvage this._

Balon stood up abruptly. The chair clattered to the floor as he said, “Damn them!”

He stormed out of the room before Theon could call him back. He wasn’t sure if the look on his father’s face was born of anguish or fury.

Asha began to stand up too. “We will drown this castle in Ironborn.” She said. Her voice grew in strength. “No one treats an Iron Islander this way. We will reave, we will burn, we will kill, and the Drowned God help anyone who stands in our way. I promise you, brother, there will be nothing in the whole of Westeros that will save them.”

Theon paled. But somewhere he found the courage to put his hand over hers. It stopped her. “No,” he said. He took a deep breath. “Damn it all, I wasn’t going to tell you. Not this way.”

“You weren’t going to tell me what?” Asha said.

“You won’t believe me, I know you won’t. But it’s the truth.”

Asha sighed and threw a calculating look toward the door. “Alright,” she said. She settled down beside him on the floor. Her voice was soft as she said, “I will hear you out, baby brother.”

 _How to begin?_ Theon hummed and settled on a place. “I woke up from that fever and realized something was wrong. Something was different. I…” He trailed off, uncertain. Asha made no move to reassure him. It wasn’t her way, it seemed. He cleared his throat and began again. “Everyone was younger than I knew them to be. _I_ was younger than the years I had lived.”

Asha furrowed her brow. She seemed to be wondering if even the Starks could have messed him up quite so badly. He gave her his ghost of a smile and went on. “You see, I’ve already lived this year, and the year after, and the year after that. In three years, Westeros begins to change.”

He looked over at his sister. Her head was leaning back against the wardrobe. She had her eyes closed. He wasn’t even sure she was truly listening. “You don’t believe me. Of course you don’t. No one does.” His voice leaked frustration.

She said nothing. He sighed. “Jon Arryn died.” He began, “After that, King Robert visited Winterfell. He made Lord Stark the Hand of the King and he left for King’s Landing. But before he left there was an incident in Winterfell and afterward someone tried to kill one of the little Starks. I’m not sure exactly what happened next, I wasn’t paying close attention at the time, but somehow we ended up at war with the Lannisters.”

“We?” Asha’s voice was impassive.

“The North, mostly. Pyke stayed out of it at first.” He said. “After that, the Starks won battle after battle. They even captured Jaime Lannister. And… at some point it all went wrong. Both Renly and Stannis Baratheon started vying for the crown, proclaiming themselves king. Then the Greatjon went and opened his big mouth and elevated Robb Stark to King in the North.” He didn’t mention how wholeheartedly he’d supported that move in the beginning. _Not important._ “At one point everyone with a title seemed to be commissioning a crown.”

Asha snorted. “Sounds exciting,” she said. Then she paused and said slowly, “King in the North? You said that same thing when you were… raving. ‘Down goes the King in the North.’ So I can look forward to his downfall?” Her voice was playful now.

 _I wouldn’t look forward to it._ Best not say that though. _How do I word this?_ “Only if you want the Lannisters ruling Pyke.” He raised both his eyebrows at her in jest.

She nodded and sighed heavily. “None of that explains why you went mad, brother.” She said. She was as blunt as ever.

He shrugged, “I made a _choice._ ” He said the word bitterly. In the beginning it hadn’t seemed like he’d had much of one, but he’d made it all the same. “It was the wrong one. It landed me in a place where I had no allies and no friends.”

Asha’s mouth pursed in curiousity. “I didn’t ally with you?” She asked.

He blushed. “I, er, pushed you away. I felt I’d made my choice and I was going to live with it, come what may.” Also, pride might have had something to do with it. How blind he’d been. _Stupidity, thy name is Theon._ “Well, in any case, I landed in a Bolton prison cell. My title didn’t mean much by that point.”

Asha frowned. “What are you saying? How does that answer anything?” She said.

Theon paused. “They still flay, over there. They couldn’t barter me off, so they gave me to _him._ Ramsay,” his voice squeaked. He could feel his hands starting to shake. He grew quieter the longer he talked. “Ramsay Bolton knows neither restraint nor kindness. There were times I could swear he wasn’t even human.”

“Roose Bolton doesn’t have a son. Does he?” Asha asked. Then she blinked. “Oh, the bastard. Ramsay Snow. I’ve heard of him.”

Theon suddenly felt faint. He put his head between his knees and shouted, “Don’t _call_ him that! Are you insane?”

_I… I, I said, you’re only a bastard. You can’t do this to me! But he could and he can and then there were no fingers and toes and fingers and toes. Nothing but air now! Can’t shoot a bow, can’t… lies, lies, lies! He always tells the truth, but he always lies. I’ll never get out, I’ll never get out, I’ll never, never, never get out…_

“The Boltons are still Stark bannermen.” Asha said. Her face was set into a grimace.

“Huh?” He said. He felt dazed.

She repeated herself. He blinked at her. “They won’t be.” He said. “They called it the Red Wedding. A betrayal so terrible that even the gods themselves took notice. Roose Bolton switched sides. Come to think of it,” he frowned. “I think that might be what happened to me. Ramsay gifted me bread, salt, and wine. Then he stuck a dagger in my heart. You were there, you know? Trying to stop him. That’s what I wanted to say thank you for. You were the only one.”

Asha blinked rapidly. If Theon didn’t know her better, he’d think she was trying to stave off tears. She looked away from him and asked, “Is this for true?”

He put a hand on her arm. For once, touch felt as easy as breathing. “For true,” he answered.

Asha’s head thudded back against the wall. She turned it toward the ceiling and whispered, “I’ve had dreams. Dreams of fire and a wooden cross in the shape of an ‘x’ and you screaming so loudly. I didn’t know why, but I was desperate to save…” She trailed off and clammed up.

Theon couldn’t help the awe in his voice. “You dreamt that?” He said. He carefully stood up. “Believe me on this. I will not let things go as they once did. Not for me. Not for anyone.” he said. It was part warning. He knew Asha was Ironborn to the core. Ironborn tended to take advantage of chaos. He only hoped she was enough of his sister to listen to him. “I will find a way to stop it. All of it.”

She looked him straight in the eye and her face was so blank he couldn’t read what might be hidden there. She only said, “And I will talk to father.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, let’s face it, Asha’s totally Jon’s type. XD Did Asha ever carry an axe or am I making that up? Also... so much angst. Why do I love torturing these characters? Seriously, guys, it's a problem.
> 
> Leech Lord = Lord Roose Bolton (It’s a name he’s commonly called in the books because he’s always putting leeches on himself to “improve his health.” Yuck.)
> 
> Once again, thank you for all the kudos and reviews. I treasure each one! :D And don't worry, Desaira. I won't stop writing because I plan to finish this story no matter what. I am slow to update though and that will probably never change. Sorry in advance. ^^'
> 
>  
> 
> As always, please leave a review, a like, or a critique. I’d love to hear from you.


	6. The Taint of the Dreadfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do NOT own Game of Thrones. I am not and will not ever attempt to make money off this fanfic. Honestly, I have my own original stories in the works, alright? 
> 
> This takes place a while after the season 3 finale, so spoilers for everything up to there. This may end up being a mixture of both the books and the TV show.

_…_

_“Oh, my sweet summer child! What do you know about fear? Fear is for the winter, when the snows fall a hundred feet deep; fear is for the Long Night, when the sun hides for years and children are born and live and die all in darkness. That is the time for fear, my little Lord.”_

_Old Nan_

_\---_

Balon left in a hurry. He barely had a backward glance for his only son.

Lord Stark noticed. As Theon watched, the man gave a bone-deep sigh and muttered, “I should never have taken a hostage.” 

But whether that meant he should have killed Theon outright, or just left him at Pyke, was unclear. In any case, Lord Eddard walked up to him and clapped a hand on his shoulder before gloomily walking away. Lady Stark wouldn’t look at him, but he thought he caught a glimpse of fear in her eyes. Both of them would be planning for an attack, he knew. In their eyes, the only question was when. Theon hoped, if nothing else, that he had held off that particular attack for a full three years. 

Months passed and little happened. Bran grew an inch. Arya did not. Jon improved his swordplay. Rickon learned more words. Sansa became more ladylike. Robb… Robb got a little louder. He was more outspoken, but at the same time more introspective than Theon could remember him being. There was no word from the Greyjoys and none of Lord Eddard’s spies, he hadn’t had any so he’d had to employ some soldiers and a baker, could find out anything much at all. The weather grew gradually warmer and much of the snow melted. The grass seemed dead, but the trees were beginning to grow leaves again in the presence of spring. And on one early morning, Theon attempted to sneak away from it all.

He’d saved up a considerable amount of coin for this day. They were on a hunting trip and they were going near the farm that Theon thought was the one that he’d visited during his siege of Winterfell. So, early in the dark of the morning, he grabbed his gold-lined pouch and quietly closed the flap to his tent. Even if he was a hostage, he was a still a noble one and had been given his own quarters. In fact, they were right next to Robb's, which was a little surprising considering everyone thought he was a terrible influence. 

He woke no one up. Carefully, he snuck passed the men sleeping on the ground and entered the shadows under the trees. He couldn’t take out his map just yet as it would only cause too many questions if he were caught, but he knew the farmhouse lay close, somewhere to the northeast. He struck off in that direction. He didn't encounter any obstacles. There were no shouts from the camp, no guards crying for him to "stop in the name of Lord Stark!" And yet... 

Theon's heart skipped a beat as he heard a sharp _crack_ behind him. He whirled around as his hand reached for his dagger and his eyes roved over the smooth trunks of the trees in the near darkness. He saw no movement. The shadows stayed where they were. After a few tense minutes, where he stayed as still as a deer, he finally started off again. The rest of the trip was, honestly, a short one. He came upon a well-kept, wooden structure after less than half an hour’s walk. It looked familiar, but Theon couldn’t be entirely sure until he saw the kids. 

_And therein lay the problem,_ he thought. Most would be abed at that hour, not wandering around their property. He had hoped some solution would present itself when he arrived. So he wandered the border of the trees for near five and ten minutes before he heard it. “C’mon!” a young boy’s voice shouted.

Theon hunkered down in the bushes and watched. As two children scampered out, once again carrying wooden sticks as makeshift “swords,” he found himself smiling. He shook his head and looked up at the trees. “So maybe you are on my side.” 

He wasn’t sure who he was talking to. R’hllor or the Old Gods or even the New Ones. But someone out there seemed to be invested in his problem. The two kids were definitely the two he’d seen in the forest. They both had the same curly hair and the older one still limped. When he saw them in the moonlight he was even more certain. They stayed close to the house, so he threw the bag of coin into the clearing. He let out a sigh of relief as it clinked on the ground. He’d been carrying too much. He was glad to be rid of it. He let out a loud whistle and saw the boys’ freeze in place. For a brief moment, Theon felt two different worries compete within his chest. One was that they would not come, would be scared off. Another was that, even by seeing them like this, he was dooming them to some awful fate. If he was cursed, could he curse them too? Simply by existing? 

But it was too late to turn back. The younger one ran forward while the older one rushed to keep up. The younger one found the pouch. He poked at it with his stick before calling his brother over. The older boy shooed the younger one away and opened the bag. Gold coin spilled out of it as if from a waterfall. Theon saw the older boy gape in surprise. The younger one whooped and yelled, “Look brother! Look!” 

After the two rushed back to their home, Theon stood up. He whispered, “I am sorry,” and left to go back to the camp. He arrived before daylight. No one noticed him slip back to his tent and no one bothered him until sunrise. When the dawn broke upon the sky Robb stuck his head inside. He gestured for Theon to get dressed and join the hunting party. Once he’d gotten ready, Robb stepped in again. Theon noticed the boy had deep bruises under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept at all. He made to ask, but Robb spoke first. 

“Are you ready yet? I swear, you take as long as Sansa.” Robb joked. He made a fist and slammed it down on his open palm, “Oh, Theon. I forgot!”

“Forgot what?” Theon frowned. He hadn’t had enough sleep for guessing games.

“I forgot your winnings. Here, let me get them.” Robb said. He quickly rummaged through his pockets.

Theon rubbed at his eyes and yawned. “ _What_ winnings?” He asked.

“The ones from our bet.”

“I don’t remember a—”

“Here.” Robb stated. He winked at Theon. “Spend it wisely, alright?” 

Then he left. Theon sputtered for a moment before giving up on thinking altogether. He hefted the pouch in his hand. It was leather, but not at all rough. There was an “R” embroidered on it. He opened it to find nearly as much coin as he’d just given away. He grimaced. A mocking voice echoed through his mind. _You were an arrogant little lordling. Always given everything. So much money you thought you owned us all. But that’s what a lordling is, isn’t it? Did you even have any idea how many people would have killed you for that?_ A pause in which Ramsay had let his knife of a smile grow into a sword. _I think I’ll show you how they’d have done it._

Theon had dropped the pouch during the memory, but the rest of his body was tense. He shook just the slightest bit as he picked it up. Then he set it in his pocket and set out to find the other Starks. He found Bran feeding his horse. The boy was setting out carrots in neat rows and eyeing the trees around him as if they were calling to him. Theon frowned and sat on a nearby stump. “No climbing Bran,” he ordered. 

It really sounded more like a plea. Bran showed his carrot-filled hands in an “I’m innocent” gesture and then grinned at Theon. “What are you doing here? Have you Seen something else?” He asked.

Theon snorted. “Yes,” he answered. “I’ve seen that I’m going to owe you money. I figured I might as well get it over with while I have some.” 

He shoved a third of the coin into Bran’s hands. He couldn’t help wiping his palms together as if ridding himself of its taint. Bran merely blinked at him. 

“That doesn’t sound important enough for the Gods to show you.” He sounded disappointed. 

Theon tried not to smile. “They work in mysterious ways, Bran.” He said. 

He found Sansa and Arya next. Sansa was strolling by a running brook while Arya trailed after her sister and pelted her with small pebbles. Sansa finally had enough and whirled around with a yell. “Stop that, Arya you beast!” She shrieked.

Theon raised his eyebrows. _So much screaming. Can’t girls just yell like normal people?_ He thought. Or maybe he’d said it aloud. All of a sudden Sansa turned her wrath on him. “Girls are normal people! Not that you would know,” she muttered. 

He flinched. _No, I wouldn’t._

Sansa must have noticed it because she blushed, lowered her head, and mumbled, “I am truly sorry. That was not a remark befitting of a lady.”

Theon’s heart dropped even further. Sansa would have apologized to a prince or a visiting lord. That he knew. But to a brother, sister, or Greyjoy, she would never have made the effort. Not before. So did she see him differently now? He’d seen her apologize to Hodor once. She’d bumped into him and a flurry of apologies had sprung to her lips. He wondered if he was on the same level, in her mind. Something to be pitied. He shook the thought away with a sigh and said, “I was wondering if you two were looking to make some coin?”

Sansa looked puzzled, but Arya, who had been ignoring him up until then in favor of dipping her dirty toes in the stream, suddenly locked her eyes on his. “Why?” She asked.

Theon took out Robb’s pouch. “Well, Robb and I made a bet. But I’ve realized I don’t really have anything I want to spend the coin on so I figured the two of you could use it.” He said.

“Oh!” Sansa’s hands flew to her mouth. “No Ros? You’ve been cured.” She muttered, astonished. Then her eyes became noticeably misty. “So now you’ll never marry her? You won’t bring her away from the harsh life of a misunderstood companion and teach her how to be a proper lady? How can her prince leave her behind?”

Sansa had clearly worked herself into some kind of frenzy, but hell if Theon could see where she’d come up with it all. _Prince?_ And just how much thought had she put into that crackpot theory? Arya’s interest was, of course, immediately peaked. Talk of something adult-only and Arya would be on you like a rabid dog. “Cured of what?” She asked. Then she seemed to think it over again. Her forehead creased. “What?”

Sansa waved her off impatiently. “We’re talking about adult things Arya.” She said.

There was more than a hint of boastfulness to her voice. Theon rolled his eyes and said, “Sansa thinks I spend all my money on whores. Do you want my coin or not?”

Arya snatched it from his outstretched hand like a viper. “Thanks Greyjoy!” She called. 

“Yep,” He said. His empty pockets felt so much lighter than they had before. He had the strange urge to wash his hands off in the stream, but he settled for wiping them on his breeches instead. _Money really is such a strange concept._ He handed the rest of the coin to a stunned Sansa, though he stuffed the pouch back into his pocket. When he walked back to the camp, he found Robb saddling his horse. He handed Theon the reigns to Smiler, his favorite stallion. _So named because someone once told me I smiled at all the wrong things. Perhaps I should rename him Cringe. Or Death of Pride. Or maybe just Let’s-do-This-Again._

Robb patted Smiler’s nose before mounting his own courser. “Walk with me?” He said.

“Uh, sure.”

As most of the company charged forward on the trail of the deer they’d all been tracking, Robb and Theon trailed behind. Robb was quiet, which was unusual these days. All of a sudden the boy blurted out, “Giving out of fear isn’t the same as giving out of kindness. Someone once told me that. I thought it very wise.”

Theon pulled up the reigns. “Y-you saw?” He said.

Robb stopped too. “I was awake anyway and you were trying to be too quiet for a piss." He patted the horse's mane absently. "The farmhouse, Bran, Sansa, and Arya. What are you so sorry for? What are you afraid of?” He demanded. 

But Theon was still stuck on that earlier sentence. There was no denying it. He _feared_ being the same person he used to be. But so what!? “Is it wrong?” He said out loud. “It’s still giving.”

“Reasons matter,” Robb said. He looked worn out. “Swearing fealty to a king because you believe in him and swearing fealty to him because you’re scared of what he could do to you are two separate things. One person you know you can trust, the other you never can.” Robb puffed out his cheeks in frustration and quickly said, “I’m not wording this right. I’m not calling you an oathbreaker or anything.”

Theon laughed. “But both have to follow that king around to all his god-awful war counsels and sleep in tents and get bitten on the balls by bloodsucking insects.” He said sagely. 

That ended the impromptu morality lesson. Theon yanked on the reigns and his horse bolted forward. Robb gave a shout and spurred his own courser to follow. The ensuing race was competitive and left them both breathless with the sheer fun of it all. For a while Robb seemed to forget that Theon was anything but his friend. Maybe that reminder was why, the next day, Robb Stark seemed to decide that he would be the one to bring a little more humor to Winterfell.

Theon found him with his hands covered in raw meat that he’d taken from the box set aside for the ravens. Robb was carefully lifting up the cushion on the Maester’s seat when Theon walked in. The poor boy jumped clear into the air when Theon cleared his throat, but the very next moment Robb sent him a wolfish grin and slathered the nasty stuff all over the seat. Then he placed the cushion on top, washed off his hands, and dashed to his own chair. Maester Luwin walked in not even a second later, followed by a bored Jon. 

Theon lowered himself to his own chair. He had a hard time fighting off a grin. Jon saw it and sent Robb a questioning look. Maester Luwin merely grabbed a few maps from his desk and said, “The provinces of the south have been carved up to look like this,” he placed a map onto the table and pointed at it, “with King’s Landing supposedly in the center of it all. However, Harrenhal is, and always was, far better situated for trade. We will be studying the trade routes along The Trident today.” He said. Then he sat down. The old man sniffed at the air. “What on earth is that smell?” 

Robb choked. Theon hid his growing smile and patted Robb on the back. The red-haired boy sent him a sunny smile in return. During all that, the Maester began shifting in his seat, a look of confusion stamped on his face. He grumbled, “What have you boys done this time?” 

The old man made to get up and then the cushion slid out from under him. The Maester was so shocked he nearly sat on the contents. At Theon’s side, Jon’s mouth fell open. He mouthed, “Really?” and glared at Theon.

Maester Luwin crossed his arms and scowled. “Theon Greyjoy,” he accused. “You will clean this up right now.”

Robb burst out laughing. Theon wasn’t long in following. Through gasping breaths he finally managed to say, “It…” _cough,_ “wasn’t…,” _wheeze,_ “me.” 

Robb crowed, “It was me! It was me!” 

Even Jon looked shocked. Robb finally caught his breath and said, “What? A good lord doesn’t let someone else take the fall for his own actions. It was most definitely me.” He smiled again. 

Theon pretended to slap him on the shoulder. “You’re not supposed to own up to it,” he said. 

Maester Luwin selected another chair. He put his head in his hands. “Is this what I have to look forward to from now on?” He asked.

It seemed like a rhetorical question. No one felt the need to answer. After that, for the most part, the lesson went on as planned. It was boring work, but Theon knew it was necessary. Robb, for his part, would need to learn every trade route by heart if he were to ever become king again. Theon did his best to keep Robb on track, but the more he tried, the more unruly and just plain stubborn Robb seemed to become. He eventually gave up. 

Near the end of the lesson, a strange tiding came on the legs of an old, dark raven. 

It croaked and cawed out, “Bastard of Bolton.”

Theon felt his quill fall to the table.

“Leech Lord, Leech Lord,” the thing cawed. It stuck its leg out. Maester Luwin sighed and made to grab the missive tied to the old bird, but it quickly took its leg back and cawed, “Scraps?”

The Maester grumbled and laid out some insects from one of the boxes he usually filled for the ravens. The bird didn’t deign to look at them. “Scraps,” it called. 

Worms were tried next. The raven pecked at them, but didn’t eat them. “Scraps,” it called again. 

Finally, the Maester gave in and plucked up some of the raw meat still sitting on the chair. The raven gave him what seemed like an unhappy, and very prolonged, stare before it picked it up and gulped it down. It extended its leg to the Maester slowly, looking for all the world like it was thinking, “next time bring the best you’ve got.” Next to Theon, Robb frowned. “Odd bird,” he said.

Theon didn’t think it odd at all. _I know what they feed their ravens._ His insides felt sick, as if they were the thing being digested in the bird’s stomach. “What does it say?” He asked.

The Maester scratched his ugly, bald head. “Why, it says Lord Bolton is to pay us a visit. Honestly, so many of our bannermen in such a short time?” His eyes grew concerned. It only accentuated the wrinkles. “You’ll be alright though, lad? You… have a history with them?” His tone was of one fishing for answers.

It was a month too late for that. Theon had no intention of giving them. Still, he felt himself taking sharp, shallow breaths. _Ramsay, here?_ He’d hoped that he’d never have to see him again. He’d hoped that if he was smart enough, was good enough, that he could leave that part of his life behind. He’d hoped, he’d hoped, he’d hoped. He realized he was gripping the table with crushing force. He let go with a gasp. “I, I’m alright.” He insisted.

No one believed him. Robb carefully bumped his side with his elbow. “They don’t have any reason to ask for you. They never have before. But if it makes you feel better, you can take your meals in your chambers. I’ll tell mother to allow it.” He nodded firmly. 

For a second, Theon couldn’t believe what he’d heard. “You’ll tell her to?” He asked incredulously.

Robb blushed a shade that did not compliment his hair. “I’ll ask,” he amended. 

Theon felt the cold leaving his veins. _No one else remembers. Asha only dreams._ And she had actually been there at the end. Roose Bolton hadn’t. Mayhap there was no reason to worry. He could stay out of Ramsay’s sight until they all left. There was no reason, no reason at all for Theon to be the purpose of Roose’s visit. 

The Boltons arrived four days later. Theon was out in the courtyard polishing his sword when Roose strolled in through the South Gate. The man didn’t make a sound, didn’t even look his way. He merely tilted his head and his small retinue of soldiers went off to find their own amusements. Theon carefully set down his blade and hid behind the nearest forge to watch. Roose himself set off for the Great Hall with purpose in his step. Most of his men went straight back outside, no doubt heading for the houses of ill repute or the taverns littering the main road. A few of them, however, stayed with their liege lord. With them was a boy with black hair and eyes as blue as the river on a dark night. Theon only saw him from a distance, but it was enough. There was a swagger to that step and a dangerously playful way that only Ramsay moved. When Ramsay tilted his head it wasn’t stoic or understated or even pretending to be respectful. It was always accompanied by a wide grin and an eye that never stopped searching. For a terrible moment, Theon actually thought his tormentor had glanced his way. But it was only for a moment. The next instant, Ramsay followed his father into the hall. 

Theon bolted for his chambers. When he met the grass of the courtyard, he almost ran straight into Hodor. He darted to the side and heard the man proclaim, “Hodor?” But Theon didn’t slow down. The ground was bare of snow so he practically flew the rest of the way to the tower. The door was a heavy door and was always left open during the day. He would have loved to have closed it and shut out the world, but it would have taken all of his strength. He settled for sprinting up the tower stairs instead. Only there was something blocking the staircase. He skidded to a halt and put a hand over the stitch in his side. 

“Greyjoy?” Arya asked.

He couldn’t catch his breath. He waved at her in an, “of course,” kind of gesture. She looked at him funny and said, “Why are you running?” 

He nervously glanced back at the open doorway. A servant in Bolton livery walked passed. Theon shrunk back behind the doorframe. “No reason,” he hedged. “I’d like to go up to my room?” 

It came out as more of a question than he’d intended it to. Her plain face gained a crafty look. “No,” she stated. She was as stubborn as always. “Not until you tell me why you’re running.” 

Theon shuffled his feet in panic. “Please?” He begged. 

Her expression didn’t change, but more curiosity leaked into her voice. “Who are you running from?”

Robb knew, but Robb had also heard of his fear of Boltons firsthand during the fever. Arya would ask far too many questions and then he’d never get up the stairs. He thought quickly. He could just push passed her, but the thought of it filled him with irrational fear. What if she got angry? Or… Or he could answer her questions with questions of his own. Ramsay had always done that when he didn’t want to talk about something. After a bad session with his father, Ramsay would be full of hateful little barbed questions to stick him with. He’d done it to avoid the insults and questions Theon had stupidly thrown at him early on. Everything in Theon rebelled against using a tactic he’d learned from his jailor, but he couldn’t think of anything else to do. He crossed his arms over his stomach and could feel himself hunching his shoulders even smaller. “What are _you_ doing here?” He asked her. 

She frowned. “Waiting for Jon. Why were you running?” She said. 

“Well, can’t you wait for him outside?” Theon asked.

“No.”

Theon threw another glance at the doorway. There were a lot of voices talking outside, but the noise was too far away to be clear. “What will your mother do if she finds you in the bastard’s wing?” He said.

She glared at him. “That’s none of _your_ business.”

The voices grew closer. Theon could make out Roose’s precise tone monotonously ordering someone to “not be so incredibly stupid all the time,” as it could, “stunt your growth by the height of a head.” 

Theon threw Arya a shallow, cheeky grin and desperately asked, “Is why I was running any of your business?” 

Arya puffed out her cheeks like that fish his brother had shown him once. She made a frustrated noise when she couldn’t think of an answer and then she angrily stepped aside. “Jon and I are going to train all day, so it doesn’t even matter.” She said.

“That’s nice,” he told her. 

Then he sprinted up the steps as fast as his legs could carry him. He didn’t look back. 

He made it to his chambers safely. Once there, he pulled the wooden casement at the window closed before latching it. Then he retreated to his bed and pulled the wolf fur around his shoulders. _It’s going to be a long night,_ he thought. He wasn’t wrong. With nothing to do, the day dragged on. Theon took out some flawed pearls he’d fashioned into marbles, but the game was boring without someone around to take bets and compete against. Without the window open, he couldn’t tell time either, but he wasn’t about to open it. Hours later, just as Theon was starting to doze off, he heard knocking. “Theon?” It sounded like Robb.

He walked in with a plate of boar meat, cheese, and grapes. Robb looked at the closed casement, but didn’t comment except to offer him a sympathetic smile. He sat down on the bed as Theon ate. Afterward, he pointed at the marbles. “Best two out of three?” He challenged. 

It wiled away the time until the sun set. But when Robb left, Theon was left with only his thoughts. And as the night lengthened, they became increasingly morbid. Images of the torture chamber hid in the murky corners of his mind. It had been a dark place that stank of piss and sweat and blood. During the day, the torch had been lit and some sunlight had trickled in. Under all that light things should have been safer. In the stories, nothing bad ever happened during the day. Some part of him had still believed that lie when he’d first arrived at the Dreadfort. Of course, it hadn’t taken him long to stop believing. Still, the night had been almost worse than the day. In the darkness, only the torches in the hallway were lit. His cell had been a tomb filled with ghosts and shadows. Theon had no doubt that Ramsay liked tombs. Surprise visits had been common. _Please go away._ He thought, but nothing stopped the memories from crowding his mind. _Just for now. Please._

Robb brought him the meal to break his fast the next morning too. He didn’t stay long, saying he was expected to attend the meeting between Lord Eddard and Lord Roose Bolton. Theon couldn’t stay hidden forever either. He wasn’t expected to do anything, but there was no chamber pot in his rooms. He stayed as long as he could, but eventually he gave it up and headed downstairs. He didn’t meet anyone on the way down, but as he was washing up, he heard raised voices a few benches over. One of them was female. He recognized it as Ros. _In with one of her clients then._ She was complaining about something. Theon made to leave before he heard her say, “I’ve heard o’ him.”

The next voice was too low to hear and, though there were no doors, the half-stone walls around each bench didn’t allow sound to travel well. The noises didn’t sound like the usual noises Theon associated with Ros, though. 

Ros’s voice gained an octave in annoyance. “Well I never see him anymore, do I? Gone a bit cracked all the ladies say. But he was a great lay, of course. A _real_ lord. Best I ever had. Don’t tell him I said so. Though,” her voice went sultry. “You’re better, I’ll bet. Why don’t we stop talking about him?”

The next voice chilled Theon to the bone. “A real lord.” A boy’s voice repeated. There was something not right about the way he said it. He went on. “But his name? It’s Greyjoy? He lives in Winterfell? Not Pyke?”

_Ramsay._

Ramsay was asking about him. His legs went numb and he had to grab the counter to hold himself up. _How does he know my name!?_

“Theon Greyjoy. Yes.” Ros sounded defeated. “‘Course he’s here. He’s Lord Stark’s hostage idn’t he? ‘Cept none of the girls have seen him for a long while so maybe he up and died on us. Least the good part of him has. Am I still being paid for this?”

“Oh,” Ramsay’s voice had a sly edge to it. “You’ll be paid in full. I’ll make certain of it, myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poll: So… what major events should I get to changing? I have a few in mind, but only really those at the very beginning of the war. Help me out here, guys? I haven’t watched the show in a while.
> 
> And Ramsay’s finally here. He’s fun to write, I can’t lie, but I really did try to balance out the horror with some humor. Anyway, will this end everything before it’s even started? Who knows. Tune in next week!
> 
> On a separate note, as for Asha and Ramsay remembering... I'm sorry you didn't like it (and it's okay to quit reading, as I agree that it may be an unnecessary plot point) but they and one other person will be the only ones to recall the past time line. That has a lot to do with their proximity at the time of the event as well as the fact that only one person remembering gives too much of an edge to one faction and I don't like giving the main character that much of an advantage (even if the fix-it isn't yet panning out like the main character wants it to). 
> 
> As always, please leave a review, a like, or a critique. I’d love to hear from you.


	7. Ramsay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do NOT own Game of Thrones. I am not and will not ever attempt to make money off this fanfic. Honestly, I have my own original stories in the works, alright? 
> 
> This takes place a while after the season 3 finale, so spoilers for everything up to there. This may end up being a mixture of both the books and the TV show.

_…_

_“Fear cuts deeper than swords."_

_Arya Stark_

_\---_

Theon _knew_ that tone. It was the one that Ramsay always used before the blood and pain began. For a split second he made to step forward. He wasn’t sure why. To warn Ros? To get it all over with? To go back to his jailor before he could be punished for hiding? Shuffling sounds behind the partition brought him back to his senses. The very edge of a boot stepped around the corner of the stone and Theon darted out of the room. The way back was harrowing. Theon was certain that every servant was a spy, every Winterfell man a Bolton. It was bright daylight and the air was warm, but everyone who looked his way seemed to look just a second too long and no shadow, no alley, seemed safe enough. He’d almost made it back to the tower when familiar voices once again stalled him in his tracks. Roose Bolton walked out of a doorway to his right. He had three men following him, each of whom Theon personally recognized. 

Roose’s face was smooth and unaltered, but he sounded irritated as he said, “And once again Lord Stark has nothing to say. No word on Pyke or the filthy iron men that reside there.”

One of the men grumbled, “It’s like he’s just waitin’ for another rebellion. No spine these wolves. None at all.”

Theon stepped to the side and lowered his head as the group passed. He was hoping to pass for a servant. No one ever looked twice at them. But Roose must have caught a glimpse of his finely made clothing and halted in front of him. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced?” The man asked.

Theon bit his lip. “I’m nobody, ser. Just… a lord they made out of a farmer’s son.”

He tried to keep his accent as uncultured as he could get it. But he didn’t have much experience with farmer’s sons. Daughters, yes. Sons, not as much. 

Roose nodded even as a frown made its way to his face. “The kraken on your tunic says otherwise,” he stated. 

Theon had to glance down at the golden kraken embroidered there before the words sunk in. _This is the second time that little symbol has called attention to me. I really should burn it off._ He slowly raised his eyes to meet Lord Bolton’s. 

“So you’re the one responsible for the mess.” Roose said. He lifted one eyebrow as he scanned Theon. “You don’t look at all mad to me.”

“No,” someone’s else’s voice chimed in. “He looks like a boy who wanted ‘dear daddy’ to come running and thought if he played the part well he could start his own little war.”

Theon felt his breath quicken. His heartbeat doubled as he turned toward the newcomer. Ramsay stood there with a casual hand around Ros’s waist. As Theon watched, he pushed the girl away and stated, “I’ll be there tonight.” 

Theon caught Ros’s eye. Ros was a redhead with hair that looked a shade more natural than Sansa’s or Lady Catelyn’s. She had a pure face that could sometimes become impish with laughter or cruel japes. She wasn’t laughing now. Uncertainty was pulling down the corners of her mouth. She was backing away from Ramsay as if she wasn’t sure what to make of him, as if she’d seen a glimpse of something she didn’t like. As she met Theon’s gaze, she gave him a sultry nod and walked over to him. She gained more confidence as each step brought her further from Bolton’s only heir. “Littl’ lord,” she teased when she reached him, glancing downward. 

Both of them knew her joke was a lie, but Theon didn’t call her on it. In fact, he couldn’t find any words for her at all. He knew he should tell her to trust her instincts and to stay away from the Boltons, but as soon as he thought the words he made the mistake of glancing at Ramsay. The pale boy tracked their movements with his eyes. He looked hungry, and not in the way normal people hungered. Theon opened his mouth to say something, anything, but the terror filled it up until there was no room for anything else. Ramsay would know! Ramsay always knew…

Ros huffed at him and leaned in to whisper in his ear, “Such silence. I’m sure _I_ can bring you back. No time like tonight.” 

She sent him a glance that was almost pleading, almost soft. Theon felt a stab of true pain. She might have been only a paid companion and they might not have loved each other, but they’d been around each other often enough. He started to say, “Don’t,” but behind them Ramsay laughed. 

“Are you making other plans, little deer?” The boy’s eyes glittered with laughter. “Because I’m sure I paid for you tonight.”

Ros swiveled her hips and slunk boldly out of sight before he could finish his sentence. “Of course,” she responded, neither one way or the other. 

Theon couldn’t help but feel as if he was seeing her for both the first and the last time. When he turned his attention to Ramsay, the boy grinned. His eyes were bright. “Theon Greyjoy, I assume?” He said.

Theon swallowed down the bile building in his throat. Ramsay was wearing his usual unremarkable grey clothes, but there were tiny stains around the sleeves. Blood? His hands shook. And suddenly Roose Bolton was behind him. He’d barely heard the man’s footfalls. They must have been as soft as snowflakes. The whole thing felt like a snare closing in on him. Then Roose walked passed him to put a hand on Ramsay’s shoulder. Ramsay shot the older man a hateful look, but it didn’t deter him. Roose spoke, seemingly bored. “We do not want any incidents. Keep the whores to a minimum.”

Ramsay nodded with a scowl as his father and the man’s entourage walked away. Left alone with his tormentor, Theon tried to control his breathing. _In, out. In, out. Easy now. Easy._ But he flinched as Ramsay sauntered over. The boy had had a fascinated glint in his eyes. “Come with me. We should talk.”

“I-I… think I have duties to attend to. S-sorry.” 

Ramsay’s smile didn’t leave. If anything, it grew larger. In a sharp movement, the boy grabbed his wrist. It was as binding as the ropes had been. Ramsay started to tug him toward the Godswood. “It won’t be but a second. My, you’re skittish.” The boy’s eyes slid to the side to track him. “Why is that?”

Theon didn’t answer. He didn’t think there was a right answer for that question. If no one else believed him, then why should Ramsay? And, if by some chance he did, would Theon really want him knowing? He held too many secrets. If he opened his mouth his jailor would have them all. Ramsay made it look casual, talking animatedly about dull things until they were on the edge of the wood. When the area was clear and no one was looking their way, he drew Theon in. They kept walking until the underbrush grew thick and the shadows long. They were far away from the springs. Very few ventured this far inside the wood. When he came to a halt, Ramsay slowly let go of his arm, as if he was reluctant. “Sorry about earlier,” he said. “I have to keep up appearances for father. I don’t really think you called war down upon us. Not on purpose, at least. You don’t look the type.” 

Theon frowned. An apology? _This isn’t like Ramsay at all. Has he changed?_ But his mind wandered back to the boy who led him to the Dreadfort, the accommodating servant boy who he’d thought of as a friend. It was exactly like Ramsay. This was the stalk, the very beginnings of the hunt. “T-thank you,” he stuttered.

Theon found his knees growing weak. There was a stump laying a few feet away. He fell onto the thing more than he sat. _How does he know me? How?_ A faint _crack_ sounded from the woods. Ramsay whipped his head toward it and narrowed his eyes. For a full minute, he stayed hunter still. Then he crouched down to Theon’s level. “Thought it was father,” he joked. His eyes became searching. “You know, if I didn’t know better I would think…” He said, before he trailed off. “Yes. You’re terrified. Why? You have nothing to fear from me. I’m not even trueborn, my lord.”

Theon took a shaky breath. Before he thought it through he said, “I know what you are.”

For a short moment, uncertainty and suspicion crawled across Ramsay’s face. And then it all cleared. What it left was a dawning, sick delight. “You’ve had the dreams too.” He said. “What is it you’ve seen? A dungeon with a filthy floor, perhaps?” He stood up and began to walk behind to Theon’s unprotected back. He leaned in close and whispered, “A flaying knife? Sharp and ready.” 

Theon’s breath caught in his chest. He struggled to let it out. Ramsay made his way back to his front side, trailing a hand over Theon’s shoulder. “Skin peeling off, flake by flake. Rotting fingers.” He picked up Theon’s hand and slowly laced his fingers through them. “Did you beg me to cut them off? I dreamt that. Oh yes.” Ramsay said. 

Theon shivered. He muttered, “Yes, my lord.” 

Yes, no, and please had been the only words he’d been left with in the end. 

Ramsay’s laughter was playful as he said, “I’m choosing to see them as promises. I wonder what _you_ make of them?” 

Theon closed his eyes. _I’m all alone. No one’s coming to save me._ “Nothing, my lord.” He said.

All of a sudden, Ramsay snarled. “You’re already trained. Did someone get to you first?”

“No!” He shouted, panicked.

But Ramsay’s hand had already swatted his aside and settled on Theon’s neck. He gripped his neck tightly and his grubby nails dug into the flesh. The boy’s other hand held a knife just under Theon’s chin. The sharp edge of it was pressed forcefully close to his skin. Theon was certain he would have bruises and scars if he lived passed the moment at all. 

He leaned back as far as he could until Ramsay calmed down. As soon as he did, the boy fondly stated. “Even knowing who I am, you still lie. Not trained well enough then. You’re coming back with me. No one will miss you and I have a nice room all picked out for you—”

“What is going on out here?” The new voice was measured and dangerous.

Ramsay let him go so fast all Robb must have seen was the blur. Even so, the red-haired boy had a sword held at the ready, two hands on the blade. The boy’s curly hair was windblown. A second later, another figure stepped out. The girl’s eyebrows were lowered in challenge. Though her expression made her look like a boy, Theon had never been so happy to see Arya before. The little girl had a rock hefted in her palms. What she thought she was going to do with it was anybody’s guess.

“Having a chat?” Robb asked. He didn’t lower his blade. “Lord Bolton’s been asking around about his son. That you?”

Ramsay’s show of teeth was short-lived. He was quick to straighten up as soon as he recognized Robb as a Stark. “I meant no harm,” He threw his hands in the air as he laughed it off. “Theon and I were just talking, weren’t we? We’ve met before, haven’t we? Two bastard sons having a chat. Well,” he looked at Theon with something that wasn’t amusement, but was close to it, “near-bastard, anyway.”

Robb seemed uncertain. He looked to Theon. 

“Yes?” It came out as more of a frightened question, before he got a hold of himself. “It’s true.”

Robb lowered his sword. Arya scowled and didn’t drop her rock. She looked like she’d been itching for a fight. 

“See?” Ramsay darkly chuckled. “All a misunderstanding. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I do have duties to attend to.” He took a slow breath, walked passed Theon, and then turned on his heel. His voice held an edge to it. “You know what happens, don’t you Theon Greyjoy? Meet me at the gate.”

Theon swallowed hard. He didn’t answer. _Yes, I know what happens if I don’t obey. But I don’t… think I want to go with you…_ There was a wary tension in the air as Ramsay left. Robb broke it by striding forward. He knelt down to Theon’s level and pulled a confused look. “What was that all about?” He asked. “I heard something about dreams?”

Theon flinched. _If Robb heard that he had to have been close enough to…_ But then he realized why Robb might have chosen to lower his sword. The undergrowth was so thick in that part of the forest that nothing in the clearing could be seen without actually entering the clearing itself. Ramsay had probably chosen it for that reason. Robb still didn’t seem to be certain of what he’d heard. He wouldn’t understand. 

“It… was nothing, Robb. Don’t worry about it.” 

A wave of pure loneliness hit him. It was the kind that he’d felt back at his cell when he knew no one would ever come for him and he’d thought about catching a mouse, just to have something soft and warm, something that was too stupid to mean him harm, but they’d all been too fast. He wanted to shake the feeling off like a dog would. He settled for standing up. As soon as he did, Robb’s eyes widened. But it was Arya who spoke. “What happened to your neck?” She asked.

_Oh no._ His shirt collar had fallen out of place. He hurried to pull it up, before he noticed that Robb had gone as still as the frozen tundra they lived in. The boy turned to Arya and said, “Go on ahead. We’ll meet you.”

“But—”

“Go on.” His voice brooked no argument.

She threw the rock and muttered as she left that, “no one ever tells me anything important.”

Robb turned back toward him. Theon felt as if the blood was dripping out of him again, leaving behind a cold, dead corpse. He didn’t dare look up. “It’s nothing.” He whispered.

Robb walked closer. His eyes raked over the gouge marks and already deepening bruises. “It is not nothing,” he argued. 

He sounded stunned. When Theon didn’t answer, he set his jaw and his mouth drew into a thin line. “You’re not going near that gate.” He said.

At first, the statement didn’t make any sense. And then it did and Theon wanted to hug Robb, wanted to thank him a thousand times in a thousand different ways. If he couldn’t go near the gate, Ramsay would leave without ever seeing him again. He’d be protected… But suddenly that pride Theon had thought was gone and vanished reappeared with a vengeance. Rage filled his veins like a choking cloud of smoke. He did what he always did when he felt that way. He pushed back. “You couldn’t stop me!” He yelled.

Robb seemed taken aback. Theon kind of was as well. _Why am I arguing with him?_

“I don’t need your help, Stark! Just leave it well enough alone!”

He stomped off, anger running a course through his blood until the fire abruptly cooled. _Stupid,_ he berated himself. _So stupid._

He hadn’t walked ten paces before he thought of something to say. When it came out, it wasn’t at all what he’d meant to say though. “Can you call Ros to the castle? Come up with some excuse?”

Robb’s voice was quiet. “Ros? Why?”

“Because if you don’t, there might be one more dead woman on his hands.” He said. “Actually, better to shut down the brothel altogether for tonight, if you can find a way to do it.”

He didn’t turn back to see the effect of his words.

As he walked back, his steps took him towards the brothel itself. It was a small building nestled in between the ramshackle houses in the older quarter. But no matter how hard he looked or who he asked, no one knew where Ros was. Robb somehow managed to get the building shut down before he’d finished searching and he was kicked out by a burly guard who apparently recognized him as a frequent visitor. The man’s only words were a slurred sneer of, “It’s been closed ya fucker. I never liked ya face. Leave.”

Theon wondered if he could get the man sent to the wall. _Maybe it’d sober him up a bit._ But he forgot all about it as he hurried back up to his room. Day had turned to evening. The shadows had lengthened under the buildings, casting long patches of murky darkness in the spaces close to the stone where Theon would normally feel safest. The torches were just starting to be lit and almost seemed as if they were struggling to come to life. It was probably a result of the light wind that had started up, but it all served to make him walk a bit faster.

He didn’t make it to the tower.

The screams caught him by surprise before he could cross the threshold. They were high and throaty and out-of-control in the way screams are when someone is seeing something that can only be described as horrific. Theon was personally acquainted with screaming of that nature. He froze when he heard it, even as several braver men immediately rushed by him to get to the source. By the time he’d gathered his courage, there was a large crowd blocking the view of a small alley near the stables. A woman had fainted and a young guard was trying to revive her with smelling salts. He was waving them all around as if he’d never used the stuff before in his life.

He saw Jory Cassel, The Captain of the Guard, parting the crowd in order to lean against one of the stalls. The man mopped at his forehead with the back of his hand and grunted at him. “You don’t want to see _that,_ lordling. ‘S not for your eyes.” He said.

Theon dug his nails into his arms and asked, “What’s happened?”

The Captain looked at him with anger. “A girl’s been done in. Nasty business. Never seen its like. Don’t ask me no more. I’d pin it on one o’ the Bolton men, but seeing as they just left it don’t do tha’ girl no good. She’s not one o’ you highborns, so no one’ll care to follow up. That I can guarantee.” 

Theon took a harsh breath. His heart began pounding in his chest as if it was trying to beat its way from his ribcage and out into the open. Why hadn’t he said anything to her? Why had he let her go? To be sure, he asked, “Was her hair red? Was it—”

The young guard had finally managed to wake the fainted woman up. It was a mistake. The lady started wailing loud enough to wake the dead. Beside him, the Captain threw up his hands and muttered, “women!” He tried to talk over the noise, “Yea, hair was red like spun gold in firelight. Name was Ros. I take it you knew ‘er? Most men did. I’m sorry for yer loss, lad. If you know anythin’, be sure to tell me. For now, I’ve got to deal with this.” The Captain clapped him on the shoulder and, without waiting for Theon’s answer, he left. 

Theon slid down the stall door and put his head in his hands. _Fear’s a paralyzing feeling,_ he thought. _It settles into your blood, the very marrow of your bones, and stops up all that’s good in you._ Theon had had his chance to change. 

And he had missed it. 

Whatever god had sent him back would be disgusted with him now. There was no way he would be forgiven. _They’ll take away my second chance and I’ll be left with nothing._ He stumbled to his feet as a new kind of fear iced up the insides of his heart. It was the fear of failure. It set an ache in his chest worse than any other pain he’d ever known. No, it wasn’t sharp, wasn’t a flaying, but like only the worst of Ramsay’s tortures could do, his every thought seemed to drag him down until he felt like less than nothing. He knew his name now… but if his name meant failure? What then? 

Somehow he found himself standing outside the council rooms. Having no idea why his feet had led him there, he looked around. To his surprise, Lord Eddard Stark was motioning to him to come in. He realized Robb’s hands were on his shoulders, steadying him. Someone inside the room said, “Shot to death with crossbow bolts in seven different places. Half of the other wounds were nowhere near fatal, but I’m sure they were painful. The poor girl.”

Another said, “We must be careful where we point the blame. We cannot afford to set the Boltons against us.”

As Theon sat on the nearest available chair, someone else replied, “Besides, it could have easily been one of our own men, much as I hate to say it.”

“No way in hells,” Jory was there too. “None of our men would do that! It was barbaric. Jus’ like a Bolton. Besides, girl had some black hair under ‘er nails. Some black-haired Bolton servant was seen with her just before she up and died. Seems cut an’ dried to me.” He growled.

Lord Stark sighed. He looked tired. “We will find justice for her if it’s at all possible. Robb?” He asked. “How is it you knew to look for her?”

The others looked startled. The council consisted of Maester Luwin, the Captain, and various other men Theon had met at one point or another. They all turned to Robb. There were exclamations of, “What?” and “The boy knew?” and “How?” 

Robb took a deep breath and turned to Theon. His mouth muttered an apology just before he said, “Theon’s the one that told me, father. Somehow, he just… knew, I think.”

Instant muttering from the men. The Captain of the Guard shot Theon a look that was suddenly very sharp. But what really surprised him was the murmured, “They did say the boy had the second sight,” from one of the men Theon didn’t really know. 

Most of the others glared at the man until he cleared his throat and said, “Not that _I_ believe anything like that…”

Lord Stark restored order with a simple question. “Theon?” He asked.

Theon frowned heavily. His mouth twitched and he could feel his expression crumbling. For some reason, he felt the absurd urge to cry. His voice had gone a little broken when he admitted, “It’s my fault.” 

The Captain sat back in his chair. “That so?” He asked.

Robb let his gaze linger on the man until he made the Captain twitch in discomfort. Then the red-haired boy spoke up. “It is in your interests to let a witness speak, is it not?” he said.

Lord Stark seemed surprised by the authority in his son’s words. He sat back and watched Robb closely. Theon noticed it all without really noticing it.

“I know Ramsay.” He said quietly. “I know what he can do. But I didn’t stop her. I couldn’t find the words and then she was gone…”

There was a flurry of questions, most of them revolving around who Ramsay was. Robb and the other men answered most of them themselves. The council ended soon after. Most of them had come to the conclusion that there was nothing any of them could do but bury the girl. No one was willing to risk strained relations with Roose over a lowborn. Even so, Lord Stark said something about writing a letter to Roose to ask for an, “internal investigation into the death,” and said he hoped for the “results to be delivered peaceably to Winterfell.” 

_Fat chance._

Theon was on his way back to his room when Robb intercepted him. “It’s not your fault, you know.” He said.

“How would _you_ know?” Theon rasped.

Robb’s brow furrowed. “Stop that, will you?” he said. “I’m only trying to help.”

“I don’t need your—”

“I don’t care whether you need it or not!” Robb snarled. “I’m giving it because we’re friends. You tried everything you could to prevent it. I saw you at the brothel asking for her. So what if it was too late? What that boy did was evil. Evil carries on whether people try to stop it or not. Sometimes you can’t do a single thing about it. What matters is the trying. Because in the end, if enough good people try, they will succeed.”

Stunned.

That was what Theon felt. Robb’s speech was naïve and probably not at all accurate and hell, Robb had had a thousand people “trying” to win the war the last time around, but… even so… it made him feel a little better. Perhaps the future was not so dark as it seemed. 

He hadn’t failed Robb yet.

Still, there was a long road ahead. As he watched Robb walk off, he started to feel the same as he had all those long years ago when he’d first come to Winterfell. Back then, he’d felt anchorless, adrift in a foreign land. Now, he could only hope Robb’s words were enough to hold onto to stop him from drowning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late post. I’ve just been so busy with my MBA and trying to publish my novel and searching for a job that this gets pushed to the side sometimes. ^^’ I’ll do better. 
> 
> So, some of Theon’s pride has made a resurgence. It makes him a less than appealing character, I know. But without it, it simply isn’t Theon. It won’t be there at all times, though. I think, if someone really went through what Theon did, they wouldn’t come back out of it the same as they went in and I don’t think they’d ever fully recover. So, no. Theon will not be miraculously fixed at any point in this story. 
> 
> Annnndddd, Ros is dead. And by the exact same method as in canon. Sorry. She just seems like a character destined to die no matter what. 
> 
> As always, please leave a review, a like, or a critique. I’d love to hear from you.


	8. The Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do NOT own Game of Thrones. I am not and will not ever attempt to make money off this fanfic. Honestly, I have my own original stories in the works, alright? 
> 
> This takes place a while after the season 3 finale, so spoilers for everything up to there. This may end up being a mixture of both the books and the TV show.

_…_

_“No one can survive in this world without help.”_

_Ser Jorah Mormont_

_\---_

_Three Years Later_

_\---_

The forest canopy was filled with sound. A squawk here. A chirp there. Bran didn’t make it any quieter with his continual efforts to reach the sun by way of the trees. Robb and Theon sat in the shade below him. Robb kept glancing up and yelling, “Don’t climb so high, Bran!”

A map was spread out on the rock they were sitting on and, even though Lord Stark had wanted them to plan an emergency supply route to aid a town on the boarder that had been attacked by wildlings, Theon asked, “What would you do if you had to defend the wall?”

Robb groaned good-naturedly, “Not this again, Theon.” Then he laughed, “What am I defending it against?”

Bran shouted down, “Giants!”

“Yes,” Theon agreed, smiling. He’d found it easier over the short years he’d been back. “Giants and wildlings.”

Robb rolled his eyes and said, “Well, first I would have you summon your mighty Kraken in defense of The North.”

“Done,” he joked. “But be serious. Where would you position your troops?”

Robb appeared to think it over before he started placing small pebbles on top of the map. Theon was grateful. He was sure the boy was just humoring him, but it had been a long time since Robb had asked him why he wanted him to study the art of battle and defense. Apparently the future king had started to see “war” as a harmless pastime that Theon liked to play at. Robb was willing to play along as long as it stayed a lighthearted game. And really, this particular scenario _was_ a game. It wasn’t like The Wall was going to be attacked any time soon.

Theon looked down and nodded at the strategy Robb had displayed. The boy was good. He’d always had a strategic mind, even without all the practice he’d been getting lately. 

“Have you put down any knights?” Bran yelled down at them.

“Many, many knights.” Robb answered back.

Bran frowned and tried to be helpful. “What about scouts? Have you put those?”

Robb “hmmmed” and didn’t answer. Bran laughed and shouted, “You didn’t, did you Robb?”

Theon laughed too. “You don’t need scouts with Grey Wind around. He’s worth any number of good men.” Grey Wind could smell an enemy encampment from miles away.

It took him a while, far longer than it should have, for him to realize Robb had stopped what he was doing and was staring at him in faded concern and curiosity. The red-haired boy asked, “Who’s Grey Wind?”

Robb had the voice of someone who was tired of asking questions that had no real answers to them. Of course, over the past years, Theon had tried to stick to his resolution. He’d pulled out all the stops. He’d predicted lost teeth and punishments and any conversation he could accurately remember, which, as it turned out, were not many. They hadn’t been enough. Nothing much had happened in the Winterfell before the war. The smallfolk, with their superstitions, seemed to be the only ones willing to believe in him. Well, the smallfolk and Bran. 

Theon thought the question through and shrugged. “It’s got to be getting close anyway. Any week now…”

Little Bran’s face scrunched up in worry. “Close to what?” He asked.

“I’ll tell you before it happens,” Theon chuckled. “But Lady Stark will _not_ be happy with all the fur.” 

He ended up forgetting though. It wasn’t up until the moment they were riding through the trees, Lord Stark, Jory and Rodrik Cassel at their backs, and they began to cross the tiny, stone bridge that he thought to say, “Oh, well here come the Direwolves.” 

_A Lady and a Ghost, a Summer and Winter wind, a legend and a nobody._ Theon thought aloud.

Only the Captain of the Guard and Lord Eddard had been riding close enough to hear him. Lord Stark stopped and stared. He said, “That’s been our sigil for years, boy,” but didn’t comment on the other things, perhaps because the questions from up ahead had caught his attention.

“What is it? Mountain lion?”

The scene they came upon was familiar to Theon, but everyone else greeted it with a wary kind of hush. The stag was easily one of the largest Theon had ever seen. It was clear some animal had got to it, what with its belly having been ripped open and its fur matted with mud. It was missing an antler.

Lord Stark replied with, “No mountain lions in these woods.”

Then they followed the signs of the struggle down the slope and were met with the sight that had long haunted Theon’s dreams. For if those beasts were well and truly _real,_ what hope did anyone else have against a Stark? The Direwolf was a monster of an animal and, even dead, the size of it was intimidating. Theon remembered saying, “it’s a freak,” and could recall the disgust in his voice as he’d said it. This time, he stayed silent, and it was Bran who asked, “What is it?”

Lord Eddard said, “It’s a Direwolf.” He added, “Tough old beast,” as he tugged the antler out of the creature’s jugular. For the first time, Theon wondered if this had been a sign of things to come, a premature whiff of Baratheon might and power that they’d all ignored. He stiffened up when Lord Stark suddenly turned to him, a puzzled cast to his grim face. “There might be something to it,” he muttered, but he didn’t elaborate.

Robb’s disbelief was apparent. “There _are_ no Direwolves south of the wall.” He insisted.

Jon shook his head and picked up a ball of fuzz nestled at the dead mother’s belly. “Now there are five.” He gestured absently at the other four pups. Then he pushed the little beast into Bran’s arms. “Do you want to hold it?” He asked.

Bran took the thing with awe. “Where will they go?” He asked, “Their mother’s dead.” 

Ser Cassel said something about the pups not belonging. Theon remembered snatching the thing from Bran last time around and holding a dagger to its defenseless throat. He’d been waiting for what he was sure would be orders to kill the monsters before they could grow. This time he waited it out, an almost-smile on his face. The mutts had turned into brilliant scouts and ferocious allies in battle. He was immensely glad he’d never been on the receiving end of Grey Wind’s bite because he’d seen those who had. If Robb needed anybody, he needed his Direwolf. 

He barely heard Bran pleading with Lord Eddard to let them spare the pups, but as soon as Jon opened his mouth he decided he’d speak too. He remembered the exact words that Jon had used and he gleefully echoed them. They both spoke at once, “There are five pups. One for each of the Stark children.” 

Jon sputtered to a stop and narrowed his eyes. “How did you…” His mouth moved though no sound came out.

Theon finished the sentence. “The Direwolf is the sigil of your house, Lord Stark. Maybe they were meant to have them?”

Lord Eddard sighed heavily. He must have felt the tides of opinion changing, because he relented. He gave the younger Starks the house rules, ending with the bleak statement, “And if they die, you’ll bury them yourselves.”

With that, Lord Eddard and the others started back up the embankment. Bran held onto his pup as he looked to Jon. “What about you?” He asked. “Don’t you want one?”

Theon almost rolled his eyes as Jon sent out his customary, “my life is so terrible, feel sorry for me” look. The boy then replied, “I’m not a Stark.” He waited a soulful pause before he said, “Get on,” and pushed Bran ahead of him. 

Theon picked up the remaining mutts, but stayed right where he was. “You’re forgetting something, Snow.” He said. He was definitely showing off now. He didn’t get that many chances to be so insufferable and all-knowing, after all. The few chances he did receive had to be savored. 

Jon scoffed at him, “Forgetting what, Greyjoy…” But he trailed off as he heard the whimpers. He stalked down to the lake bed and leaned over to pick the hidden white pup up by the scruff of its neck. 

Theon chuckled as he raised his eyebrows. “The runt.” He said. “Looks like we found yours, Snow.” 

The look he got in return seemed to tell him where he could shove it. He ignored it and started back up the trail. Behind him, he could hear Robb’s quiet laughter. The two brothers said something he couldn’t make out and then, just as he was about to reach the others, Jon called, “Wait!”

He glanced back down. Jon was leaning close to the bank of the stream again. His head was tilted in curiosity. “There’s something else here,” he said. 

Theon picked his way down the bank in confusion. He couldn’t remember there being anything else last time. He saw Jon hand Ghost over to Robb. Then the boy put his face close to the bank and squinted. He murmured, “It’s dark, but…” and then stuck his hand under the roots growing along the stream’s bed. Theon heard a yelp, and Jon hissed. But before Theon could wonder if he’d somehow gotten himself bitten by a snake, Jon pulled a tiny, dark mass out from underneath the root it had been trapped under. It was covered in leaves and mud, but there was no mistaking what it was. From behind him, Bran excitedly whispered, “Is that another Direwolf pup?” 

Theon paled. _What is this? This did not happen before._ He shook his head, and kept shaking it, almost unaware of what he was doing. “This isn’t right.” He admitted. “This shouldn’t happen.” 

He realized Bran had found his way below him, and was looking up into his face with worry. “You didn’t See this?”

“No.” Theon felt cold. “There should only be six.” He said. 

“Well,” Jon brushed a few leaves out of the pup’s face and said, “The back of it is soakin’ wet. If the waters had risen any more, it would have drowned. If I hadn’t stopped here for as long as I had I might’ve missed it. It wasn’t making any noise. I just saw the shine of its eyes, is all.” He looked sadly down at the pathetic lump he had a hold of before his face abruptly changed. Jon said, “Greyjoy, give those other ones to Robb.”

Robb protested, “What? Why? You’re only carrying one.”

Jon rolled his eyes and grabbed Ghost back from his brother. He pointed his chin at Robb in a “now” gesture. Robb sighed and took a few more of the mutts. That left Theon with only the one hiding in the crook of his elbow. He shifted it further to the side as he asked, “What are you doing now, Snow?” 

And that was when Jon shoved the dirty Direwolf into his arms. Theon could have hit him. The little wolf’s paws dragged dirt across his clean coat. His arms were soaked within seconds. “What, afraid of a little mud?” Theon taunted with a frosty bite to his tone.

“No,” Jon smirked. “This one was stupid enough to get itself stuck half underwater. I think it’s yours.” He passed by Theon and patted his arm in mock sympathy. “Keep it warm.”

Theon looked down at the mutt in mild disgust. Okay, so perhaps he’d never quite gotten over his dislike of the Direwolves. “I’m not feeding it,” he announced. “And I’m not taking it out at all hours of the morning.” He had a sudden idea. 

“Robb? Wouldn’t two be much better than one? Think of it, you could sit like a king at your chair with one of these monsters on either side. No one would dare harass you.” 

So, he sounded a little desperate. But while it was perfectly alright for Robb to have one, it was another thing entirely to think of raising one of the monsters himself. The Starks almost seemed to have some kind of supernatural control over the creatures. 

But _he_ could remember well the Battle of the Whispering Wood. Fog had settled in the trees, masking every sound and hiding their position from the Lannister forces that were on their way to take Riverrun. Robb’s brilliant strategy had worked, leaving Jaime Lannister at the helm of only half of the Lannister army, while Robb had almost every man who was sworn to him in those very woods. Theon had thought he was ready for a real battle, but the quiet of those woods had disturbed him. The first kill happened before his very eyes, when a grey demon had rushed out of the fog and torn a man’s throat apart, all in silence. Then the wolf had slipped off to find other victims and the horrified cries of Lannister forces finally, finally came through the fog.

Theon pushed the memory away with a shiver. He noticed Robb angling past him. When the red-haired boy turned, he had a wide grin on his face. “Hmm, tempting. But you can’t foist it off on me. I already have two little brothers and two little sisters to look after, in addition to this new thing. You’ll just have to get by on your own.” He said flippantly.

Theon shook his head and climbed up the embankment after his future king. His arms were cold. His sleeves were smeared with mud. And he was _not_ a Stark. If his old life had taught him anything it had certainly taught him that. 

He grabbed the scruff of the thing’s neck and brought it closer to his face. From what he could see through the mud, the pup was similar in coloring to Grey Wind, though it did have a funny looking patch of black on one side of its neck. If he squinted and turned his head the right way, he could almost convince himself that the black slashes of fur looked like gills. While he was inspecting it, he was suddenly startled when the wolf twisted its head and brought its sharp teeth closer to his face. _Here it comes._ Theon flinched, before he was attacked… with kisses. _Oh… Eww…_

He settled the thing back in his arms before gently bringing his fingers closer to the monster’s teeth. It sniffed them before beginning to bathe them with its slimy tongue. It… didn’t stop either. Theon had to bring his hands away before it did. _Well, it’s hard to imagine this little thing becoming so terrifying._ He admitted. Perhaps his wasn’t all that bad?

When he reached the top, he saw Lord Stark take one look at the two additional animals and heave a heavy sigh. “Five?” Was all he said.

Theon had the decency to feel embarrassed. “Sorry,” he mumbled. 

Later that night, wearied of travel, they rode up to the gates of Winterfell. Theon was one of the first to dismount and so he saw it when Lady Catelyn rushed out to meet them. Little Rickon had been enthusiastically jabbing a wooden knife at some poor fence post, but he dropped it as soon as he saw the wolves.

“Puppies!” He shouted. 

Lady Catelyn’s eyes widened. “Eddard?” She questioned in alarm. “Just what is this?”

Lord Stark, for once, stood his ground. “We found them on the trail. I said they could keep them if they took care of them themselves. It’s a good lesson for them.” 

Lady Catelyn argued that point. “Is it a good lesson when we’re kept up at all hours of the night by howling dogs?”

Lord Eddard furrowed his brow. “They aren’t dogs.” 

“They’ll bring in fleas and dead things and we’ll never have a moment’s peace.” 

Lord Stark only had to tilt his head in the direction of his children for his wife to relent. Bran was holding his pup as if it was the most precious thing in Westeros, while Arya and Rickon were lovingly squeezing theirs’ into an early grave. Even Jon seemed happy as he was scratching Ghost’s ears. Though Jon’s happiness, of course, went unnoted by Lady Catelyn. Theon briefly wondered why _he_ had noticed. 

“Oh, alright.” She said, defeated. “If that’s what makes them happy…” 

She was frowning, making it clear that it did not make _her_ happy.

“Thank you mother,” Robb said, respect heavy in his voice.

It was much later that night that the Stark children met up in the stables for a clandestine meeting. Robb had dragged him out of bed for it. His protests went completely unheard. Bran called the meeting to order. 

“Robb probably doesn’t need to be here, but I think all the rest of us should be. Especially Rickon.” He raised his eyebrow at his younger brother. “Someone’s going to need to feed his and take care of it for a while until he gets the hang of it.”

No one volunteered. Theon had only to look at the patch of fur in Rickon’s arms to see why. Anytime anyone else went too near it, it bared its teeth in warning. Theon knew that, when it grew up, you only had to listen for the monster’s snarl to know that Rickon was near.

“We will figure that out later,” Sansa said. She smiled, “For now, we should name them. I’ve thought of mine already. Her name is Lady.”

Arya snorted. “That’s not fierce at all. She’s a wolf, not a doll.”

Robb interrupted before they could argue about it. “I think it’s a fine name,” he said. “Let’s see… Mine is grey…”

Theon tilted his head in curiosity as Robb struggled to come up with a fitting name. Theon hadn’t been around the first time, and he _had_ wondered how he’d come up with it. 

“Grey Frost? Grey Bite?” The red-haired boy tried each out, wrinkling his nose as he said them. The pup was squirming in Robb’s arms, apparently bored of the whole procedure. Robb tried to keep a hold of it, but it seemed determined to be let loose. “Grey Winter? Just Winter? Do you like that? Winter?” He asked the pup, but it didn’t seem interested in the slightest. Finally, Robb let out a fondly exasperated, “Mayhaps I’ll just call you Grey and be done with it.” 

That was when the Direwolf slipped its hold and stumbled from Robb’s arms. It had crawled across the stable and into the dry hay far faster than it had any right to. Somehow, its stubby, little legs didn’t seem like they should work that well. Theon put in his vote. “He’ll be a swift one when he’s older. Fast and agile.” He’d seen it in action. “Grey Wind is his name, I think.” He repeated. 

Bran gasped. He gazed straight at Robb as he stated, “ _That’s_ his name, Robb. You remember, in the forest?” 

Robb quickly turned his grimace into a false smile. “Of course.” He was only pacifying Bran, it seemed. But then his mouth gave way to a real grin. “Grey Wind is a good enough name, I suppose. Though I probably could’ve come up with better, if you’d given me time,” he teased. 

Bran was no longer paying attention. “Do you know the name of mine?” He asked.

Theon let out a shy smile. It was awkward to suddenly have so much attention focused on him. He could feel his shoulders hunching up. “Yes,” he admitted. “Though you should find it on your own, first.”

“Hey, you didn’t let _me_ find—” Robb began to grumble.

“I gave you plenty of chances,” Theon found it somewhere in him to tease back. 

Eventually, Bran found that the name Summer matched his Direwolf’s coloring and Arya found that Nymeria was a good, strong, warrior name. Jon’s short statement, “His name is Ghost,” came as no surprise for an all-white, red-eyed beast. Rickon’s choice was the one name that stood out from the rest. Of course, it stood out in a really terrible way. 

“Shaggydog.” He stated solemnly. 

Bran shook his head as if he was shaking water from his ears. “What did you say?” He paused. “Rickon, you can’t name him that! He’s a Direwolf. That’s the symbol of—”

“He’s Shaggydog.” Rickon repeated stubbornly. The little boy curled his lip in an imitation of his wolf. It looked surprisingly feral. 

Bran backed off. “A-alright then, Rickon. That’s a very,” He trailed off in uncertainty.

Theon heard Jon mutter, “I suppose he does look like a shaggy dog to you…” 

Arya laughed at it all. “I like it,” she stated. “What about yours, Greyjoy?”

Theon hadn’t been able to forget about his, not with the way it constantly licked and bit at itself. The stupid thing seemed like it was chasing its tail half the time and gnawing at itself the other half. He just hoped it wasn’t infested. That would be his luck. “I’m not sure.” He admitted. He didn’t have any guide to naming the unnamed. 

No one could convince him of a good name that day or the day after, though they certainly tried. Bran proposed Cregan (for Cregan Stark) an ancestor who fought Aemon the Dragoknight. Aemon had been a powerful Targaryen, and Cregan had almost won the battle, but Theon didn’t feel much of a connection to the name. Arya took one look at Theon’s sorry excuse of a flea-bitten mongrel and said he should name it Biter. Sansa thought he should put Lord in front of its name, but couldn’t think of anything other than that. Arya had giggled and made some comment about Theon’s wolf being “Lord of the Fleas.” 

Rickon suggested…

“Dog.” 

“Just Dog?” Theon asked. 

“Dog.” Rickon said. The little boy smiled up at him, all chipped teeth and boundless enthusiasm. The kid _could_ be cute when he wanted to be. 

“Alright then. Robb, what do you think?” Theon tried not to plead for Robb to save him. There was no way he wanted to be cornered into naming the Direwolf something that might even piss off the Direwolf itself. 

Robb snorted from where he was leaning against the armory wall. “I dunno. What about Kraken?”

Theon leveled him with an unimpressed gaze. “Your lack of creativity continues to surprise me, Robb.” He said. The future king shot him a look. “No, I’m serious,” Theon continued, a teasing tone in his voice, “You’re a story-killer. If you were a bard all your characters would be named Lady and Knight and _Winter._ ”

Robb laughed. Theon didn’t say it, but he did secretly have to admit that he’d thought about naming the mutt Kraken. The only problem was that he didn’t feel any connection to the sigil of his household. Naming the mutt that would only remind him of what he wasn’t. He’d burned the golden sigils off his clothes a long time ago and… almost burned Winterfell to the ground along with them… A servant girl had had to come in with a bed sheet and a bucket to help him put it out. Lady Stark had cursed his name for weeks on end whilst she commissioned the tailors to make him a set of more presentable clothing. He shook the memory away with a chuckle. 

Besides, he was almost certain that as soon as he named the Direwolf, whatever god was watching over him would take it away. _I am not a Stark,_ he repeated to himself late at night. _This is a cruel, cruel joke._

About a week later, they received _the letter_. Theon only knew because Lord Eddard began to walk around with a permanent frown etched onto his face. Theon hadn’t actually been told, the first time around, that Jon Arryn, Hand of the King to Robert Baratheon, had died. But Robb had known and had explained it to him after the fact. Any day now, Theon expected the announcement of the royal visit to take place. _But I really shouldn’t wait that long._

He looked down at the unnamed one at his side. The little pup had grown. It could stumble around on its own, even if that stumbling often left it running into things. As he picked it up, it gnawed on one of his fingers. He stood at attention as Lord Stark walked past him, perhaps on the way to some meeting or other. It was now or never. Theon whistled behind him. “Are you ready Bran?”

Bran’s hair was getting a little long. It fell into the boy’s eyes as the kid asked, “Who else is coming?”

“I thought I’d bring Jon into it. I’d like for Robb to come, but…” He didn’t need to explain why that wouldn’t happen. Bran knew that Robb believed none of the things Theon had “Seen.” Robb would be embarrassed and dismissive if Theon tried to talk about them in front of Lord Eddard. And he did intend to talk. This was his best chance at stopping the war, but he wasn’t blind or stupid. He _knew_ how little influence he had on the Stark patriarch. He was fully prepared to be brushed off. If that was the case, if it happened that he couldn’t stop the rising tide of battle any more than he could stop the sun from setting, well… he had other, more drastic, avenues of approach to minimize the casualties. 

Jon jogged up to them. “Am I late?” He asked.

“No.” Theon took a deep breath. “Thank you.” He said.

Jon seemed uncomfortable. He stuttered, “Look, I… If there’s even a chance things could go as badly as you say… I’d like to say that I tried to prevent it. I’ve watched you and Robb strategizing. If there ever is a war, we need our father here. Not in King’s Landing. Mind you, I’m only doing this if it’s true that Jon Arryn’s dead.”

Theon’s face took on a solemn cast. “It’s true.” He said.

They cornered Lord Stark in a deserted hallway and Jon asked for an audience. The man almost dismissed them outright, but as Lord Stark glanced back towards the meeting rooms, Jon blurted out, “It’s about the Hand of the King.”

Lord Eddard whipped his head around to stare at Jon. “What do you know of Lord Arryn?” He asked.

Jon shifted uncomfortably. He gestured with a thumb at Theon. _Thank you coward,_ Theon thought. He took another deep breath, as if he was about to take a plunge in the ocean, and said, “He’s dead isn’t he?”

Lord Stark glanced around and then, with a careful hold of Theon’s shoulder, he pushed him into an adjoining room. His voice was quiet and intense as he asked, “Where in Westeros did you hear that?” 

Theon took in Jon’s reaction to the news. The boy looked stunned. He must not have been nearly as prepared as Theon thought he would be to hear the truth. He hoped Jon could hold it together and put on a more convincing face for the rest of it. He turned back to his Lord and admitted, “I just know. You received a letter from Lady Arryn stating that the Lannisters have murdered her husband. She’s fled King’s Landing and holed up in the Vale. If it comes down to it, don’t bother asking her to help you. She won’t.”

Lord Stark motioned for them all to sit down. He himself remained standing, clearly thinking everything over. He said, “You must have a reason for saying this. Have your relatives received a letter as well?” Even he seemed skeptical of his last statement. There would have been no reason for Lysa Arryn to have written the Ironborn. 

Theon brought a little piece of parchment out of his pocket and handed it to Lord Eddard. The parchment contained the events he’d predicted thus far, events both Bran and Jon could independently verify. After a moment, he cleared his throat and said, “I’m bringing it up because it won’t be long before King Robert realizes he needs a new Hand. He’ll come here. He’ll choose you.” 

Lord Eddard tilted his head. “That much I’ve worked out myself.” He said gently.

Theon tried to hold his ground. He brought his eyes up from the floor and spoke. “Well, what you may not know is that you cannot afford to go to King’s Landing. Not now, my lord. You’re needed here.”

Lord Stark raised an eyebrow as if in question, but Theon wasn’t sure how to begin. Jon’s awkward, evasive look didn’t help any. Perhaps it was lucky that Bran pointed out, “Don’t you know, father? Theon’s got the Sight.”

Lord Eddard raised an eyebrow. “I’m aware of the rumours.” He said. He didn’t say whether or not he believed them. 

Theon took in Bran’s shining face. It was so full of faith that it was almost unnerving. _Who in the whole of Westeros is worthy of that kind of faith? Certainly not me._ “Lord Stark,” he drew the man’s attention back to himself. “They aren’t rumours. I’ve seen what will happen if you leave your family here.” 

Lord Eddard shrugged, “Having the King’s favor can only help if we’re dragged into another war with the Ironborn. It may be worth the risk of leaving the North.”

From there, the debate ran its course. Bran was enthusiastic, but his faith and youth were more hindrance than help. Jon was steady and grudgingly supportive. But nothing, nothing at all, seemed to convince Ned Stark. The man kept a neutral expression upon his face at all times. He asked questions, but Theon couldn’t tell whether he really wanted answers, or if he was simply interested in the story his sons had brought to him. After a while Lord Eddard put down the parchment and stared them each in the eye. 

“This may have truth in it.” He admitted in his gruff voice. “Maybe the Old Gods have given us a warning.” 

Theon dared to hope.

“But mayhap there are White Walkers among us and the man from the wall was telling truth. Perhaps the dragons will rise again to blot out the sun. Mayhap the gods will show themselves in the wars of mortal men.” He paused for a long moment before he stated, “It may not matter.”

Theon could feel Jon’s stare. The boy’s eyebrows were drawn down as he asked, “Why not? Why wouldn’t that matter?” 

Lord Stark took up a stance that was powerful and commanding. “King Robert is my king. Honor would not let me fail him. It would not let my _house_ fail him. If he is in danger, as Lady Arryn's letter suggests, then I must protect my king."

The words seemed final. Jon and Bran seemed taken aback. Jon asked, “Not even if—” But Lord Eddard cut him off, weariness etched into the lines of his face. “Why are you here?” He asked.

Theon realized his lord was speaking directly to him. So, with a sinking heart, he told his tale. He told it much the same way he had told it to Asha, though he didn’t admit to having lived any of it.

To begin with, he went over the events as well as he knew them. He had once stood in the Godswood as Lady Catelyn spoke to Robb of Bran's accident. It seemed as good a place to start as any. He squared his shoulders as he spoke. "If nothing changes, Bran will fall from the Broken Tower." Theon ignored Bran's frightened gasp. Jon put a hand around the little boy's shoulder's. He could feel Snow's glare boring into his side, but he ignored that too. "That on it's own means nothing. But if Bran just falls," he trailed off before he admitted, "then I don't see any reason for the assassin that is sent after him." 

"Assassin!?" Snow muttered.

Lord Stark slowly lowered his eyes to meet Theon's own. Theon nodded at him gravely. "The man was... he _will carry_ a Valyrian steel dagger with a dragonbone handle. I don't know if Lady Stark brings you word of it, and that's why you're locked up, but something causes the Lannisters' to imprison you. War is the result."

"What of the king?" Lord Stark asked. The man's voice stayed neutral.

Theon found himself backtracking in order to explain everything. His story fell together in bits and pieces. More than once he wished he was blessed with the art of eloquence, but by the time an hour had passed, he felt that he had explained most things well enough.

Though when it came to the sack of Winterfell, he faltered. “Without you here, your two youngest sons are left alone and vulnerable to attack. I… I See a Winterfell burned to ashes. A Bolton banner rising on the wind. The Ironborn sacking the coast. Your wife receiving a letter telling her that her sons are dead.” 

As he went into greater detail he could feel his hold on the present slip. He dimly realized his fingers were rubbing together roughly, as if he was trying to erase his thoughts in some physical way. It was only when his thumb let out a sharp _pop_ from the force that he stopped the movement and conjured something brighter to mind. As if in answer, Robb’s brilliant smile formed within his memory. Theon pictured the laughter Robb had for his brother’s and the tolerance he had for everyone else. He pictured the red hair he was so envious of, because it was somehow always faultless even after days spent hunting and riding. He pictured long, sunny days spent in Winterfell either laughing at Arya's pranks or teasing Jon Snow. He thought of the three short years he'd regained and how they sometimes felt like the wonderful afterlife he wasn't sure he deserved. After he no longer felt the urge to bring himself pain, he tried not to flush as he realized how easy it was these days to bring himself out of the dark.

When Theon found the others waiting on him, he smiled a shy smile and told them everything he could think of, from the Battle of the Blackwater to rumours of Daenerys Targaryen’s rise in power. When he finished, Lord Stark slowly stood up. 

“I must think on this,” was all the man said. As he passed them by, he clasped Jon and Bran upon the shoulder. His hand lingered on Bran, and Theon thought he did not imagine the weight Lord Stark now carried upon his face.

No one knew what to say. They met each other’s eyes. 

A quiet breeze rustled the curtains at the window and Theon took a deep, determined breath. It was time to consider other plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes:
> 
> So, Direwolves! :) Finally, huh? 
> 
> And, yeah, I jumped on the “there’s one more Direwolf nobody knew about” bandwagon. But I’m not sure if I’m going to keep it exactly this way. I do have this awesome Lovecraftian scene in my head for a later chapter. So… would anyone be mad if that thing isn’t truly a Direwolf? 
> 
> As always, please leave a review, a like, or a critique. I’d love to hear from you.
> 
> Update: I re-watched the first two episodes and changed a few things near the end of this chapter because I hadn't remembered the conversation Lady Catelyn had had in the woods. Also, I altered a few other things to reflect the tone I'm trying to move toward. Hopefully, these changes are okay? I'm starting on the next chapter soon, but I'm trying to get more of the outline in order first.


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